


(you can call me names if you) call me up

by eternalgoldfish, thecopperkid



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amusement Parks, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Bisexual Billy Hargrove, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Emotional Slow Burn, Gross Hot, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fast Burn, Texting, lots of hand jobs, mood rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalgoldfish/pseuds/eternalgoldfish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecopperkid/pseuds/thecopperkid
Summary: “Why are you even here, anyway?” Steve says. “If you think it’s such a fucking shithole.”And Billy can’t really tell Steve thetruthabout that.He was going to have to drop off Max and her friend anyway, and he was even thinking of dipping right then, going to see Rebecca instead -- but then Max had been in the backseat, telling El how Dustin had texted that he’d apparently talked Steve into staying at the theme park tonight, and well.Maybe some of the reason Billy’s here is just because he wanted toseehim again. He hasn’t seen him in forever. Sometimes he almost misses Hawkins High.So this is like a pit stop. A nearly twenty dollar, several hours long pit stop, on the way to get his dick wet.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 46
Kudos: 226





	(you can call me names if you) call me up

**Author's Note:**

> Rejected summaries:  
> \- Stranger fucking THINGS have happened  
> \- _One summer can change everything!!!!_  
>  \- Their dicks just work faster than the rest of them

Steve hasn’t set foot inside Hawkins Playland in what must be years -- not since he and Tommy were trying to impress some girls and broke in after the park closed like _such_ _douchebags_ when they were juniors. But tonight, when he’s only meant to be dropping off the kids in the parking lot, he’s hit with nostalgia so intense, he actually buys his own ticket. Much to Dustin’s glee. 

Whatever, because like, it’s half price, after peak hours, anyway. Which is why the kids are going in the first place.

As much as Dustin thinks it was his cajoling, something _else_ has possessed Steve to toss out 18 dollars and extend a pale wrist so the girl in the booth can tag him with a neon green bracelet. It must have something to do with that inviting twinkling glow of the tallest rollercoaster in the park against the bruise-purple sky, in conjunction with that nearly-grating buzz from the games section even audible outside the park, or maybe it’s that scent in the air -- a promise of fried food and cotton candy. 

It all sort of feels like.

Coming _home._

Or maybe, less dramatically, it feels like a return to his childhood. Some stupid poetic bullshit, he’s aware, but. That’s how it feels. 

Either way. Steve finds himself following along with the kids -- that’s Dustin, Lucas, Will and Mike, because he’d had to give them a ride here, because _somehow_ out of the four sixteen-ish year olds, all of them are in various stages of attaining their driver’s licenses. Which is _insane,_ because Steve’s been somewhat illegally driving his friends around Hawkins since he was just barely fifteen. The kids _always_ seem to be telling Steve shit like, _“I just have to do, like. Ten more hours of night driving with someone who’s had their license for at least two years. And my mom works nights, so.”_

And Steve _gets_ that, he does, but collectively? The co-dependence is off the fucking charts.

But. Maybe he shouldn’t be talking, as someone who’s going on his second year of community college and still living with his parents. Not that _Steve_ sees anything wrong with his living situation -- he _likes_ being financially stable -- but just. Sometimes, he wonders if he’s missing out on the whole college experience. The frats and the girls and the roommates and the binge drinking.

Sure, there are parties to go to in Hawkins. But whenever he goes to them, and sees the same faces he’s been seeing for the past however fucking many years, or sits around smoking a bong in the basement with dudes who are clearly too old to still be at college parties, he can’t help but feel lonelier than he would’ve if he’d just stayed at home.

And that’s why he usually _does_ stay at home. 

Tonight, though, as they’re entering the park, he’s in a good mood. May’s here, and things are blooming as the transition to summer begins, and his classes are over until the fall, and his _preferred_ Hawkins friends are coming home from wherever they’d ended up throughout the country, and it all seems good. So he’s thinking maybe he’ll be able to relax for the night and enjoy this throwback to being a kid again -- to not having to worry about all this college and future shit.

Things are just _looking up,_ for him, in general.

That is, until he realizes they’ve stopped walking, and he asks Mike why Lucas is fighting the current of the small crowd and heading back toward the entrance -- but he doesn’t really need to hear the answer anyway, which all sounds kind of blurry like the white noise of a party through a bathroom door, like, _“Max’s brother is dropping her and El off to meet us.”_

And, _“Yeah, and Lucas is scared of Billy, so he’s trying to impress him, and he feels like has to go greet them, to be polite or something? Like Billy’s_ ever _going to be okay with Max dating anyone. I’m staying here, because they can come meet us like human fucking beings.”_

And, _“Hey, remember that time Billy kicked your ass?”_

_“Dude. Dustin. Too soon.”_

_“Oh, come on! How many fucking years has it been? It actually couldn’t be_ less _soon!”_

“Wait, shut the fuck up,” Steve says to himself, ignoring the kids, because -- speak of the fucking devil. 

Flanked by waving, smiling girls, it’s _Billy,_ who Steve’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen since their high school graduation. 

But he’s _not_ just screeching to a halt in the parking lot beyond the fences and letting the girls tumble out before peeling away, he’s -- he’s really _there,_ lit by the unforgiving fluorescent lighting at the ticket booth. Somehow _still_ looking not half bad. Steve’s thrown off, though, because his distinctive blonde hair is shorn short, in an undercut that fades into longer curls on top. And as he grins and chats with the girl at the booth, the light’s glinting on what Steve’s certain is a nose ring that he didn’t have before.

He still has the earring, though. Same general _look_ going on, too. Tightest black jeans available, torn at the knees. Denim jacket over a white shirt. 

It’s familiar as hell, and yet, Steve can’t believe it’s really _him._ It’s been so long. 

He doesn’t really know how to feel about that.

Behind him, Mike’s watching too, like, “Ugh. He’s not _staying,_ is he?”

But bad news for him, because Billy’s got a neon green band to match theirs, and he’s following at a safe distance behind Max and El, who have tugged Lucas into an excited stride toward the rest of the party.

“Fucking _great._ I was looking forward to this,” Dustin says. “And now I’m gonna have to leave, forever.”

“You’re gonna be walking home,” Steve tells him. “Because I already paid, and I’m not leaving until this place closes. Another example of why you need to _get your goddamn license.”_

“It’s not like Billy’s going to want to be with us, anyway,” reasons Will. 

“Exactly. Because you’re only worth his time if he knows he’s gonna get laid.”

Next thing Steve knows, he’s being pulled into a hug.

El’s latched onto him. She’s still kind of an _off_ kid, even if she looks more mature now. She presses her head to his chest and he’s laughing, surprised.

“Hi to you, too,” he says, and she releases him, grinning.

“It’s been _one month_ since we’ve been together,” El tells him seriously. And Steve didn’t realize it, but that’s true -- he’s been so busy with schoolwork at the end of the semester, he hasn’t really made time for much else. 

Max is kind of affectionately rolling her eyes behind El, but she comes up for a quick embrace with Steve, too, as the boys begin to chatter.

“It’s really good to see you,” she says. 

Now the girls have set up an awkward climate, though, because if they’re taking turns here, it would be Billy’s turn next. But he’s been standing to the side, looking like he’d sort of rather die than watch this reunion go down — like it isn’t _for_ him. 

And Steve doesn’t know what to _do._ Hasn’t thought about what the protocol would be for seeing his old high school — _what?_

Because _‘friend’_ isn’t the word he’s looking for.

The thing is, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t hope Billy would go in for a hug or one of those ridiculous fist bumps or a goddamn _handshake_ like they’re forty-five, like. 

He feels sort of stupid for thinking it. It just feels like it would be... right. That stupid childish shit back then, that’s behind them now, right?

Thank God Billy says something so he doesn’t embarrass himself.

“So, where’s _my_ hug, Harrington?”

He’s biting his lip, a little, like he’s trying not to smile. Like he must know how that sounds -- and isn’t he exactly the type of guy to drop that line. 

Good to know his appearance might have changed, but _he_ hasn’t, not one bit.

It’s so fucking weird to see him again, to have this be the first thing Billy’s said to him, after all this time. After everything that’s _happened._

Steve feels like he should be more angry than he is. That he should be demanding an apology he should’ve gotten, a few years too late. They were different people then, though, right? Christ, _he_ definitely is.

But Steve doesn’t really miss a beat.

“If you think you’re getting one from me,” he says, “then you’re gonna be pretty disappointed.”

Maybe Billy sees that as a challenge, because something glows in his eyes.

“What?” he says. “I don’t bite.”

“Yeah, I beg to differ,” Steve says, and he isn’t sure how to read Billy’s face, then. But he’s gotta address the elephant in the room before it bursts out of him, so he’s like, “What happened to the hair?”

Billy seems to instinctively card his fingers through his curls at that, fixing them.

“What, you miss the bun?”

“I don’t know if I _miss_ it,” he says. “But you just look. Different. Is all.”

“Change is supposed to be good for you,” Billy says, and he shrugs.

And why does that feel like a fucking attack to Steve? It’s definitely not, but he’s ornery — _defensive_ — about the fact that he’s still here, while Billy’s going to school in the city somewhere.

So maybe Steve still has the same haircut he's had since the ninth grade, the same flowy mess he keeps away from his face with the grease on his palms and a little prayer, and maybe the jeans he's wearing were bought in 2016, but. 

He likes those things? Or at least that's what he tells himself as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, says, "So is kale, but."

Like maybe it _means_ something. 

Thank fuck Max is stealing Billy's phone like, "Give me that. You have like, no one's phone numbers."

"And why the fuck would I need those?"

"Because," Max says, as if every boy on the planet is stupid and her step-brother isn't in school for something that's probably pretentious and boring, "you're going to go somewhere, and you're going to get lost, and then Will is going to get lost, and then Dustin is going to drop his phone off the Tilt-A-Whirl, and Steve will be too busy getting rejected by the girl working the cotton candy stand to even notice."

Which, rude.

She passes the phone to Dustin, who passes it to Mike, who passes it to El, all of them diligently following her law like her brother isn't grimacing more and more with every sticky teenager smearing fingerprints on his touch screen.

When the phone gets to Steve, he figures out why. Right as he hits save, Billy gets a text. And Steve doesn't mean to open it, really, he gets boundaries and all that shit, but his index finger just kind of slips, and well. Those are definitely tits. 

" _Daddy?"_ Steve asks. "Seriously?"

Billy snatches the phone from him. 

Steve's not sure which is funnier, Billy winking and licking his lips as a bad cover, or Dustin and Mike pretending to puke while Max says, "Gross. You're just--if you need us, we'll be in line for The Beast. Don't follow us."

She says it like she thinks Steve was even planning on staying with them, which he wasn't, because, like, why would he want to spend the evening with children? 

Then Billy pulls a vape out of his pocket and sets it against his lips, puffing huge clouds like some fat dragon, and Steve remembers what his other option is.

Through the vapor, the carnival lights become starburst and blurry, Billy the most solid thing in the fog. 

"So, like, do you want to go on a ride or something?" Steve asks, because he's not really sure what else he's meant to be doing, and it sounds better than, _remember that time you smashed a plate over my head?_ "Or do you need to," he waves a finger between Billy and his phone, " _handle_ that?"

"What?" Billy asks, but grins shitty on his next exhale. "Nah, I like making bitches wait."

Christ. "Then come on, _Daddy_ , we're going on The Tower."

The thing is, Billy doesn’t really want to go on The Tower. He doesn’t really want to go _anywhere_ , but he’s been in town for a total of three days, and his father has already threatened to cut him off twice, and he’s literally done _nothing_ , so.

Max wants to go to Hawkins Playland. Dad wants Max to be a virgin until she’s thirty-seven. So.

It’s not like Billy can even stop Max from fucking anyone, if she wants to. She’s been sneaking out since she was thirteen, and the thing is, Billy doesn’t actually give a fuck? Like, yeah, her getting knocked up would be a big fucking problem, but. 

He doesn’t even live here? What the fuck is he meant to do about it?

Billy could be spending his night doing something perfectly fun and respectable, like getting wasted with Rebecca Tipson and banging her on her moldy sunroom couch; like maybe they’re in high school still and this is normal, and like Hawkins doesn’t make him want to slash his wrists.

He’s being dramatic, mostly.

 _Mostly_ what he’s doing is scrolling through Instagram, while Steve Harrington chokes on his own tongue. Which is fine, maybe better than Billy’s original plans.

Steve stands like he’s never waited in line for anything in his life, a little too tense, hands still in his pockets as he watches The Tower drop up and down. He says, “So, home for the summer, huh?”

There’s something time-capsule-y about Hawkins. With his wide shoulders, floppy hair and freckles, Steve looks like he still spends half his time peeling panties off of juniors. He might, actually, with the town’s total population.

“Yup,” Billy says. “All four months.”

“Cool. Cool. You get a job or something?”

“The pool wants me back. Might do it. You still working at that shitty video store? Or did they it close down yet?”

“Hey, that’s my shitty video store you’re talking about.” Steve shuffles up the line, leans back against the metal handrail. Says, “They’re talking about it, but Hawkins has a pretty big elderly population now. They use it. And people further out in the woods don’t have decent internet, so?”

The people behind them are miles away, but Billy feels like he’s got to push and push and push. He’s not high enough for small talk. He’s not high at _all,_ which is probably why he wants to die. He stands so close his elbow knocks into Steve.

“Didn’t realize you cared so much about the elderly.”

“I care about having a job?” 

Rebecca’s got a whole set of underwear pics going up, and _this_ is how Billy is spending his night.

He bumps Steve’s elbow as he likes her post. Hopes she doesn’t send him some angry texts when she realizes he hasn’t jerked off to her yet.

Fucking Hawkins.

Steve elbows him back like, “Will you quit it?”

“Sorry, Princess,” Billy says, but like. He’s not? He licks his lips. “Am I not giving you enough attention?”

"Get fucked," Steve says. He doesn't move until the line does, though, which kind of says something in itself. Billy just doesn't know what yet.

Steve's always been so fucking _pretty_ when he's on edge. 

Kinda makes Billy want to push him around.

And Billy doesn’t really know _why_ he does a lot of the things he does. He’s aware he’s impulsive. Always has been. It’s hard to think about reasoning or intentions behind his actions when he’s _already fucking acting._

Plus, the way Steve responds to him, in the way he talks, the words he chooses, his goddamn body language -- it’s like Billy can feel the electrical current in his fingertips. Or maybe it’s heavy in the air, like the energy before a storm. 

It’s fucking exhilarating.

“So where to, next?” Billy asks. “You want to hit the games booths after this? Want me to win you one of those big, ridiculous stuffed bears, Princess?”

“Suck my fucking dick.”

“Easy. I’m just trying to make the most of this shithole.”

 _That_ seems to push Steve’s buttons. He stiffens up, like Billy’s insulted him personally. 

Townies always get defensive when you trash talk revered local establishments. Billy wouldn’t really fucking know what that’s like -- he’s been moved around all his life. Everything is impermanent to him. The eternal new kid.

So maybe that’s why he thinks it’s sort of cute to see Steve get riled over this.

“Look, I get it,” Steve says. “You don’t want to be with me. I’m not exactly _thrilled_ to get stuck with you, either — but our other option is waiting outside while the kids ride The Beast, so I want to make the most of this.”

“‘Stuck’ with me?” Billy repeats, catching on that. “Ouch.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he looks suddenly awkward. “Oh, come on. Stop it. That isn’t. What I _meant.”_

“But it’s what you said,” he says, and he’s not even worked up about it, but he’ll prod at Steve any way he can. “I thought we were getting along for once, man.”

“Why are you even here, anyway?” Steve says. “If you think it’s such a fucking shithole.”

And he can’t really tell Steve the _truth_ about that. It doesn’t even cross his mind to do so. He’s not about to disclose that the thought of going against his dad’s orders still makes him uneasy. Christ, he’s nearly out of the house, he’s nineteen years old, and he still feels this way.

It’s easier not to argue with Dad.

Arguing hasn’t worked out terribly well for him in the past. That, he’s learned the hard way.

Besides, it’s only a few more years until he’ll be totally self-sufficient. So if he’s gotta feign that he’s watching over Max, making sure she’s not, like. Getting _up_ to shit with any of those nerds, or getting stoned out in the parking lot? Then whatever. It’s a small price to pay to get his dad off his back. He doesn’t want to start off his summer with his dad getting pissed off at him already.

He was going to have to drop off Max and her friend anyway, and he was even thinking of dipping right then, going to see Rebecca instead -- but then Max had been in the backseat, telling El how Dustin had texted that he’d apparently talked Steve into staying at the park tonight, and well.

Maybe some of the reason Billy’s here is just because he wanted to _see_ him again. He hasn’t seen him in forever. Sometimes he almost misses Hawkins High.

So this is like a pit stop. A nearly twenty dollar, several hours long pit stop, on the way to get his dick wet.

“Can’t believe I haven’t been home in months — actually, _years,_ since I’ve seen you — and you don’t want me around.”

“It isn’t that,” Steve huffs. “It’s just that I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. And I know it’s not, like. _Disney,_ or whatever fancy shit you had in California, but. I just don’t understand why you’re here if you’re gonna be a douche about it.”

Billy might _kind of_ feel bad right now. Because yeah, when they were on their way over here, he could see that stupid little smile on Steve’s face, half concealed like he didn’t want to be walking around like a grinning idiot. This place makes him happy. No one has to tell Billy that.

And that’s why he’s picking on him about it. Because he fucking can. And because if he didn’t, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to _say_ to Steve in the first place. 

He’s _never_ known what to say to him.

“If you wanna know the truth, I’m just here because I’m meeting someone, after,” Billy says. “I’m trying to get my dick sucked.” 

He doesn’t lower his volume, though he’s entirely cognizant that there are like, children in line with them, and some vaguely angry-looking parents unsure if they should cover their little brats’ ears or give Billy a piece of their mind.

He sees them in his peripheral vision, sure. Also sees the line moving forward en masse, like a single celled organism. Billy and Steve join it and push toward the entrance to the ride, too. They’re almost at the front, now.

All that’s going on around him. But the only thing that Billy’s trained on is Steve’s expression. He’s trying so hard to read it.

“Of course you are,” Steve says. Then he turns away to lean on the handrail and watch the next batch of riders board The Tower. Teenagers around Max’s age file on and kick off sandals by the fence before getting seated and strapping in. “You’re so fucking gross sometimes.”

“You missed that about me,” Billy says, and he pushes Steve aside so he can put his elbows on the rail, too. Steve cocks an eyebrow. 

Billy watches as the ride creates a hissing noise, and the passengers begin to rise. The young ones excitedly swing their feet.

“So it’s Rebecca that you’re meeting, tonight, huh?”

“What gave it away?”

Steve laughs, shallow. “Uh, the tit pic?”

“Those could have been anyone’s.”

“Please,” Steve tips his head, follows the riders all the way to the top. “She’s got that stupid heart tattoo like, right by her nipple.”

“Fuck yeah, she does.” Billy’s not really thinking, has his phone out and her picture up in the same amount of time it takes him to run his tongue over his teeth. “You spend a lot of time looking at these? Think they got bigger in the last year? I’m kind of hoping they have.”

The ride drops with a sharp _woosh_ , teens shrieking.

And Steve is making this face, like maybe he wants to agree, but maybe he also wants to sabotage Billy’s ride restraints, and like, _same_. But what Steve says is, “Fucking put that away, dude. I think she might actually have that picture on her Tinder profile?”

He’s _pretty sure_ that Steve is laughing.

“She doesn’t.” Billy bumps their shoulders together. “I only looked at like, two pics before I swiped right, but I’m pretty sure that’s against the terms of service.”

“Like Becky’s ever cared about those.”

“Are you still salty that I fucked her on prom night?”

Steve hums, makes that scrunched up, mouth-pursed face again like, “No, pretty sure I’ve had like, ample opportunity to do something about that. While you were gone.”

Another reason why Billy needs to get the fuck away for good, forever. It’s a little too cozy, always being two degrees of separation from King Steve’s reportedly massive cock. 

Billy doesn’t think it’s really anything to write home about, from what he’s seen, but.

It’s a fucking wonder Hawkins High alumnae haven’t convinced the local newspaper to run a feature.

“Still single, then?” Billy asks. The hydraulics punctuate his question with a harsh _pop_. 

“If I wasn’t,” Steve asks, slow, “Do you think I would be spending my time here with you?”

“Maybe you just _miss_ me.” It keeps coming back, around and around, like maybe if Billy pretends they were buddies once, it’ll seem reasonable when he adds, “Don’t worry, baby, if you get scared on the ride, I’ll hold your hand.”

The Tower makes its final descent, catching its drop half-way, before lowering passengers back to the ground. Faint screams still echo from other rides, but for a moment, they’re overshadowed by footsteps on concrete, teenage girls grabbing the fence as they slap Vans and Adidas back on their feet. The ride booms _Animal_ like the park owners think the Neon Trees are still relevant, and maybe they are, but Billy’s been sick of this track since 2011, and Steve might be trying to keep his smile underwraps, but.

Well, Billy’s never been super great at reading him, but he’s _pretty sure_ Steve is smiling at him.

Not just in his general direction, too -- right at him, eyes a little soft as he struggles to keep his mouth flat.

Steve says, “If you think it’s that terrifying, I think the ten-year-old girl behind us might really appreciate your emotional support.”

And Billy really wants to tell him to get fucked, or ask something _completely_ unreasonable about how hot Steve thinks she’ll be in ten years, if Billy starts playing his cards right now, but he’s also got like, one ounce of a filter sometimes, and the mother behind them is already looking at them like they’ve ruined her entire year, so. When the line moves forward, Billy shoves Steve towards the gate with hands on his shoulders, pushes him a little until Steve turns to shove him back.

It’s sweet. Almost _charming_.

The ride attendant doesn’t think so. Watches them like a hawk until they’re seated on the ride, socked feet balanced on the concrete.

Steve takes a sharp breath. They’re not even moving yet, but there’s something lightning-crackly in the way Billy’s bicep squeezes between Steve’s arm and the metal clamping him to his chair, over his head and shoulders.

They stay quiet as the ride ticks up, up, up. The girl on Billy’s other side giggles, which should be fucking annoying.

“You ready, Princess?” Billy asks.

Steve says, “Fuck you,” but it’s kind of late. 

The ride drops out from under them, a hydraulic _pop_ and a sharp _woosh_ , as Billy squeezes Steve’s knee.

Really, it doesn’t matter that Billy is being a massive dick. Well, it does, but Steve isn’t willing to let that ruin his night. Maybe if he’s lucky, going to visit Rebecca is still on the table, and maybe Billy will fuck off in like an hour to go eat her out, or let her peg him, or whatever fucking weird shit goes along with her pleading _miss you, daddy_ . Like, _been touching myself all day, waiting for you_.

Like, she’s probably spent all day watching _Friends_ ? Or whatever throw-back TV show basic girls are into now that _Pretty Little Liars_ is cancelled.

Finished. Whatever. Steve does’t fucking care.

Rebecca’s dated like three dudes in the last year, she’s doing fucking fine without Billy sexting her.

Billy’s always had this way of getting under Steve’s skin. And Steve knows it’s fucking stupid, and knows he’s spent a lot of time telling himself that Billy doesn’t fucking matter, but.

When Billy touches him, bumps their arms together, or pushes on Steve’s shoulder, or fucking tugs his ear while they’re exiting the ride, Steve’s skin feels hot and crawly -- _unsettled_. 

Maybe a little vomitous. 

He’s not actually sure he knows how to use that word in a complete sentence, but he thinks it fucking fits, so. 

Billy stretches and yawns, runs a hand through his hair to fix it, and he’s kind of the worst?

Steve’s still wiggling his feet in his shoes, having toed them on not-quite-right, and Billy’s acting like The Tower was the equivalent of a warm glass of milk before bed.

“So like, that was alright,” Billy says, pulls out his vape. “But like,” he takes a drag, speaks with clouds still coming out of his mouth, “you know what would make it _better_? Really top it all off?”

“Getting fucked?” Steve guesses, not because he’s like, _offering_ , but. Billy’s like a broken record.

He’s not expecting Billy to say, “ _Yes,_ ” all slow and lazy, in one cloudy exhale. “Dude, wanna get fucking baked.”

And _oh_ , okay. Not what Steve meant at all, but can get behind that? So he’s like, “What, you got some? Because this was meant to be, like, a PG13 kind of night? So.”

“Stevie, Stevie.” Billy shakes his head. “Did anyone say I was sharing?”

He says it like it’s a tease, all shitty grin and teasing eyes, and Steve’s sure his face must be betraying how fucking tired he is.

After a moment, Billy laughs, because like, “C’mon, Pretty Boy, lighten up.”

Steve is fucking light. Steve’s a fucking helium balloon, or some shit.

He tugs on the sleeves of his sweater, April still cool at night, and kind of wishes he could peel off his skin. “Shut up. I got a spot.”

“That’s my boy.” Billy licks his lips and claps him on the back.

He’s lucky that getting stoned is like, Steve’s second favourite thing on earth, after a good fucking blowjob. And maybe cookie dough ice cream, but that’s even better when he’s stoned, _so_.

There’s this bathroom building near the edge of the park, where they left a gap between the building and the stone wall that runs along that side. It’s probably for maintenance, but it’s also just the right size to huddle, out of the way from employees and scowling parents.

Steve sort of squats down beside the wall, leant up against it. He squints at Billy, who’s backlit by the setting sun and the last orange piece of the sky.

“Come here often?” Billy says, and when Steve rolls his eyes, Billy crouches with him. They sit like that, backs to the wall, knees drawn almost to their chests. Billy’s black boots beside Steve’s white Adidas. “No, really. This feels like it’s too familiar to you. King Steve’s a fuckin’ _burnout.”_

“Look who’s talking,” Steve says. “It was _your_ idea to do this.”

“I just know how to have a good time,” says Billy. “So, don’t hold out on me, dude. How many Hawkins bitches let you put your dick in their mouths back here?”

Ugh. Billy has always been so fucking nosy to him. Always been in his business.

And okay, yeah, Steve _did_ sort of sneak off out here a lot, back in the day. 

Usually only to get high with Tommy. 

Occasionally to get a quick handjob from some girl whose mother would have been _livid_ or maybe just deeply disappointed if she knew her daughter was tucking away at the back of the amusement park to get her hands down Steve Harrington’s pants. 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Hargrove?” Steve says. “It’s bad manners to kiss and tell.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about kissing,” Billy says, which is _fair._ But he can feel it, the way Billy wants to keep pressing him. 

Like, _you didn’t answer the question._

“Look, whatever. This is just a good place to come for some privacy,” Steve explains while he watches Billy fumble with the inner pockets of his jacket. “It’s totally out of the way. The only ride nearby it has been sort of busted for a few years.”

 _“That’s_ comforting to think about,” Billy says, “right after we just got off the drop tower. I told you this place is a shithole.”

He tears into a Ziploc, where he’s got a few joints pre-rolled. The accompanying smell sort of hits Steve in the face. A dirty, green kind of sweetness.

Steve can say what he wants about Billy, but he can’t deny that he _always_ has good weed.

“Oh my God, it’s _fine,_ the rides are safe,” he says. “They have to test them every morning when the park opens.”

Billy’s stashing the bag away and sparking up the joint. There’s a little _shick_ sound as he spins the wheel on his lighter. His eyebrows draw together, and he purses his lips as he sucks. He hits it again before passing to Steve.

“Fuck that video store,” he says. Plumes of smoke come out, forced through his nostrils. Fucking _showoff._ Steve can’t figure out how to do that, still. “You should just work here, instead, if you like it so much. Seem to know a lot about it.”

“I dunno,” Steve laughs before he puts the little handmade filter to his lips. 

(Billy _also_ knows how to roll a pretty tight fucking joint. Steve’s always come out like shit, falling apart and lopsided. But they get him high, don’t they? And that’s the point.)

“You should,” Billy says. “It would be sick. If your store doesn’t work out, apply here -- and I will, too. I mean, we’d probably get better free shit here than I do at the pool.”

Billy Hargrove, wanting to get the same summer job as him? 

Now he _knows_ he’s fucking tripping.

Maybe he fell into some alternate fucking reality somehow. Stranger fucking _things_ have happened in this town.

Steve’s not sure how to feel about working at Hawkins Playland, though. Of course it has crossed his mind to apply here before. It’s always been a popular summer job for local high school and college kids. And he really _does_ love it here. 

But he just has this feeling about it -- like if he gets hired, he might get comfortable and never leave Hawkins, maybe, and this is steadily becoming his greatest fear. He’s pretty sure that guy who runs the bumper cars has been working here since Steve was a kid.

At least with the video store, Steve hates his life enough that there’s a desire to leave. To want something better. 

He’s lost in thought like that for a second, holding in the smoke against straining lungs, and apparently he’s taken too big of a rip, because suddenly he’s hunched over, sputtering out smoke. Coughing noisily into the arm of his sweater and passing the smoldering thing back to Billy, who pounds him on the back.

“Jesus, Harrington,” he says, still thumping his palm like that’s doing _anything_ to clear the tight burning feeling in Steve’s chest. “First time, or something?”

Steve’s eyes water. “Fuck off,” he says for what seems like the millionth time tonight, now with a scratchy throat.

But Billy’s taking another hit, and he _still_ hasn’t taken his hand off of Steve’s back, yet. He’s just kind of lazily rubbing back and forth, a tiny motion, soothing. 

It’s a very deliberate decision that Steve makes when he does nothing to resist. 

He doesn’t pull away, or shrug out of the grip, he just.

 _Sits_ there. Hyper aware of the sensation. Heart racing, and he’s not sure if it’s from his coughing fit or from the weed already hitting his bloodstream or if Billy Hargrove really makes him feel something like _nervous._

He’d really love to call Billy out for how this whole entire evening, he can’t seem to keep his hands off of Steve.

But he’s not about to break this moment, where for once, they’re not arguing, and they’re not really trying to show each other up. It’s like peaceful coexistence as they pass the joint a few times in silence and watch the sliver of the sky still visible in the gap overhead. From here, there’s one Ferris wheel cabin that pokes around the corner of the buildings, and Steve stares at it until it makes a rotation and is replaced by a new cabin.

When Steve takes the shrinking joint from Billy’s fingers this time, he lingers for a second, as a test. Brushes the pads of his fingers over Billy’s skin. Smoke curls upward from Billy’s ringed fingers. And for a panicked moment, Steve wonders if he could be reading into things.

After all, this is the same guy who pushed him to the ground outside the Byers house and fucking kicked him, right? The same guy who beat his face in so badly, Steve’s lucky he didn’t get a concussion. And it isn’t that Steve forgives him. It’s just that time has a way of taking out the sting.

There must be something here -- maybe Steve’s not reading into it, inventing shit -- because Billy doesn’t flinch from the touch. He lets it happen. Then watches, quiet, as Steve takes the last hit.

“Think it’s done,” Steve says on the exhale. He moves to scrape the end into the stone below them, leaving a streak of ash behind while Billy takes his hand off of Steve’s back. 

And Steve’s almost kind of sad it’s over. Like whatever moment they just had, it’s gone now, having burnt out with the end of the joint.

Steve looks up. Meets Billy’s eyes. They’re pink and glassy. He’s clearly stoned, and it makes Steve realize how high he is, too. Synchronously, both their faces crack into smiles.

“How do you feel?” Billy asks, though he must already know. “You high?”

 _“Yes._ This shit is. Really fucking _good.”_

“I got it at school,” Billy says, proud. “From one of my brothers. You’re lucky I’m deciding to share.” Then he licks his lips and says, “You know what. Maybe we should smoke one more.”

Steve _probably_ shouldn’t, but.

“I’m always fucking down,” he says, agreeable as ever. He feels _dopey_ as fuck. 

Just as Billy’s reaching inside for the bag again, his phone’s buzzing, so he huffs a sigh and checks it.

“Fucking Maxine,” he mutters, maybe to Steve, maybe to no one in particular, but he swipes open to pick up and projects his voice, curt, as he says, _“What.”_

Steve leans close enough that he can hear her voice, too.

“Where are you? Are you near The Beast? ‘Cause I need you to do me a big favor.”

Billy turns and looks at Steve. Tugs on the little cap on one of Steve’s shoelaces, absentmindedly.

“I’m a little busy,” Billy tells her, “and anyway. You’re _here,_ aren’t you? I think you’ve reached your limit in favors today.”

“Wait, wait, wait, just really quick,” she rushes before Billy hangs up on her. “We need you guys to come hold our stuff. They won’t let us on with El’s backpack. And she doesn’t wanna leave it out somewhere. You know how _sketchy_ the tourists are.”

Billy’s eyebrows cinch together, suspicious. “So, clue me in -- what the fuck have you all been _doing_ for the past, I dunno. Hour and fifteen? If you haven’t been on that ride.”

Max practically growls, and Steve is kind of laughing at how alike the two of them have become.

“Oh my God, why does it matter?” Max says. “It’s a long story. So we’re heading there, right? But then we were passing the log flume, and Mike’s all, ‘I’ve never seen this line be this short,’ so we all agreed we should go on that first, and _they_ have a spot for your bags, but for _some reason_ the biggest ride in the park doesn’t have any little lockers or cubbies or whatever, and we got all the way to the front before --”

“I don’t _care,_ Maxine,” he cuts her off. “Why can’t that weird kid sit this one out?”

“Which weird kid?” Max hisses, and Steve’s sure she just means she doesn’t know who Billy finds the most unsavory of her friends, but also -- true. They’re all fucking weird in their own right. “Whatever -- the point is, we’d ideally like to go on the ride _together,_ jerk. So we can get a picture. El’s never done that before. Come on.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “If I knew you were gonna keep asking for shit, I would _never --”_

“Billy, please? It’ll only take like, a half an hour. Otherwise, we gotta walk all the way back to the front, and pay for a locker.”

“Well, like, maybe you should have thought about that when you--”

Steve jabs Billy with his elbow. _“Dude,”_ he mouths at him. _“Let’s just do it.”_

He would feel like an asshole if he said ‘no’ to them. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do. If he went on a ride right now, he’d _probably_ puke, he’s that high.

Billy grunts. Like he doesn’t want to surrender, but he will.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll come hold your stupid shit. But I don’t do anything for free.”

“What do you want?”

“With the money you should have spent on a locker, you’re gonna buy both of us, like. Shakes. Or funnel cakes. Or -- dude. You know what sounds fire?” And his eyes light up when he smacks Steve in the arm. _“Turkey legs.”_

Steve can’t help but give him an enthusiastic fist pound over that. The munchies worked quick. Snuck up on him. “Oh my God. Fuck yeah.”

“Jesus Christ,” Max says. “Are you guys seriously high right now?”

Billy might have agreed to do Max a solid, but he never told her he’d hurry.

No, he’s taking his goddamn time. Like he always does.

Billy’s been to the Playland a few times before, but he hasn’t been in a while. Probably not since some end-of-the-year trip his junior year, or something. 

He doesn’t really have good memories of it, not like Steve seems to. To Billy, it’s just another public location where Dad has shamelessly screamed at him in the parking lot over _nothing._

And yeah, Steve had a point earlier -- this _is_ a bit of a letdown when you’ve grown up a few hours away from Anaheim. Not that his dad ever took him to Disneyland very much as a kid, but. Billy has always found himself sullenly comparing the experiences.

Tonight, though, Harrington must have softened him up, or something, because it’s like he’s got new eyes. Things don’t seem so bad. 

They merge with the crowd in the general direction of The Beast, but take a detour through the games booths. It’s all twinkling fair lights in a rainbow above their heads against the night sky, getting increasingly darker. Odd whirrs and rings and honks emit from the various tents, and these sounds would usually make Billy see red, but right now he’s just sort of floating through. Mainly focused on not losing Steve, who’s staring directly up at the string lights as he walks, still smiling all stoned, practically running right into small children who weave in and out of the throng.

“You really _are_ high, huh,” Billy says under his breath as he grabs Steve by the elbow and tugs him out of the way of some bitchy-faced teenage girls that look like they’d be mean to Max.

Steve’s laughing as he’s pulled in step with Billy.

“You can tell?”

“I mean, I’ve never seen anyone in the world be this impressed with lights,” says Billy. 

“I was just zoning out,” Steve says. And then he meets Billy’s eye, looking sort of nervous. “You can actually tell? Are my eyes red?”

“No, you’re good,” Billy lies, because it’s going to benefit both of them if he can keep Steve from getting paranoid. 

He’s still got his hand on Steve’s arm, pulling him close so their shoulders touch. Under the carnival lights, the skin between Steve’s freckles is pinkish and gold. 

“We have to go get El’s bag,” Steve says, but his feet aren’t moving.

Billy thinks maybe he should be worried. Steve’s got a small cut on his lower-lip, just a knick, like he caught it shaving, and Billy doesn’t know why that fucking matters, beyond being more proof that Steve is the biggest fucking loser he’s ever met in his life.

So he’s like, “What, you need me to carry you?”

Steve’s whole face scrunches up. “You’re not _that_ ripped.”

Billy _is_ , but that’s a fight he’s going to table until _after_ his stupid kid-sister forks over enough cash for a turkey leg _and_ a funnel cake.

The longer he’s running this errand, the more pay-off he better get.

Steve’s still walking with his head tipped up, but there’s an awkward bob to it now as he catches glances of the path in front of him. He’s too obvious about it, too fucking clumsy. It’s pathetic. It’s _almost_ cute.

“You wanna know what?” Steve says. And he’s mumbling, out of the corner of his mouth like he’s afraid he’s going to be heard somehow amongst all the fucking fair chaos, like, “I’m _glad_ we didn’t smoke the second one.”

Billy smiles. “What happened to King Steve? I thought you could hang.”

“I can,” Steve says. “At least. Usually. But I think I’m having a bad reaction. It’s happened to me before, sometimes, you know, when you get, like. _Too_ stoned? And it makes you nauseous?”

Billy squints at him. Kinda in disbelief, because like, he’s made girls hit his bong before and they puked, but. Isn’t Harrington kind of a stoner?

“I’ve _never_ been too stoned,” Billy says. “I don’t think that’s, like. Even a thing. Think it would have happened to me by now.”

Like. Steve should see the way Billy smokes at _Pike._ Maybe Billy should take him to school some day. He’s pretty sure he was high for like, 85-90% of the year.

“Well, I’m really happy for you — but _I’m_ too stoned,” Steve says, and he makes them stop, tugs at Billy’s sleeve to slow him. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That _ringing,”_ Steve says. He blinks, looking back and forth in the sky, like he’s somehow going to find the source. “It’s like, high pitched? I wanna know if it’s just me.”

Billy shakes his head and makes Steve keep walking.

“Sounds like you’re definitely hearing shit, dude. All I hear are little fuckers screaming.”

“Whatever,” Steve says. “Listen, it’s not even my fault. That shit you have is _fucked._ It fucked me _up.”_

“That’s because it’s medical,” Billy says. “It’s not cheap skunk shit you and Tommy bought off some guy in the Walmart parking lot.”

“Oh, it wasn’t even that bad. Plus, it was _one_ time, man.”

“And it ruined the party,” Billy tells him, but he’s still grinning when he slows up so he can peek into the arcade area.

The arcade is its own entire building amongst the fair game tents, with a wide entrance and blinking white lights lining it, leading up to the top where a giant glowing clown face grins from the center, a gaudy kind of invitation in. Billy might find the thing a little off-putting, under different circumstances.

Along the back wall, Billy sees kids playing that basketball game, where you try to sink as many baskets as you can before time is up, and he thinks it would be pretty fucking _ironic_ or something to face off with Steve there.

He turns back to Steve. 

“How come we never did this, back then?”

Steve scrunches his nose again. “What? Blazed it at the back of the park?”

“I mean, _sure,_ but,” he says, and he guides Steve into the stream of traffic again, “I dunno, like. Actually hung out, aside from being at the same parties.”

Steve’s still looking a little distracted as he walks, entranced by the animatronic fortune teller booth, kind of giving her a dirty look as he passes, like he doesn’t trust that she’s not real, or something. Like he’s waiting for her to jump out at him, or something.

Paranoid.

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Maybe it’s because you were a huge fucking prick in high school.”

And Billy would almost become defensive, angry about it. But even stoned, Steve gives him side-eye, chews at his lower lip. Like he thinks he’s fucking funny.

“Oh, I’m sorry, and _you_ weren’t?” Billy says. “The guy they called ‘king?’ Yeah. Okay. What alternate fucking reality is this?”

“What are you even _talking_ about, man? How was I a prick!” Steve says, and he’s still occasionally having to look down at his feet to ground himself. He might be a little more threatening if it weren’t for that. “You’re just jealous, because everybody loved me, and you know it.”

“That’s exactly it, right there,” says Billy, and they’re exiting the game area. The Beast stands tall in the distance ahead. _“That’s_ why you’re a prick. You think everybody in Hawkins is obsessed with you.”

“They are -- and you are, too,” says Steve, and when he does it, it’s like there isn’t even an ounce of doubt in his voice. 

He’s likely only trying to get under Billy’s skin, but it’s irritating how it works.

“I’m really _not,”_ Billy insists, and “I don’t know why anybody _would_ be,” he adds, but he inwardly really hates that the reason he’s committed to being here in the first place is because he _knew_ Steve would be here. So. 

As they wade into the open area ahead, through the crowd they can see Max and the brats settled up under a lamp post at the exit to the ride. Max makes a big dramatic show of _sighing,_ looking like it’s so _exhausting_ that the guys took that long to come to them.

Steve waves at the kids, smile dopey as he fiddles with something in his jeans pocket, says, “You’re a bad fucking liar, Hargrove. I remember senior year. I wasn’t the one riding me.”

It shouldn’t make Billy’s brain do some fumbling gymnastics, meanings jumbling up as Steve reaches the kids and ruffles El’s hair, but it kind of does, so.

“Dude,” Dustin says, as Steve goes in for a hug. The kid sticks his arms out, ram-rod straight, made funnier by how he’s hit his growth spurt. He’s closer to Steve’s height now but more gangling than he’s meant to be. He’s not Wheeler’s little brother -- that kid is still some kind of fucking tarantula -- but he’s bigger. They’re all bigger.

Billy’s only been gone for eight fucking months, Jesus Christ.

El thrusts her backpack at Steve’s side and clucks her tongue, a classic Max move. “Steve,” she says, “The Beast?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, words running together like, _yeahyeahyeah_. He takes the bag and thumps Lucas on the back.

Max is looking at him like he’s fucking embarassing, which.

_Yeah._

“Have fun,” Steve says, before Billy pulls him back a pace by the collar.

“Thanks, _Mom_ ,” Max and El say, perfect unison, matching expressions. It’s so fucking unnerving that Billy doesn’t say shit when Lucas takes Max’s hand, flicks his eyes to Billy like he _knows better_ , and drags the group off.

“You need to sit the fuck down dude,” Billy half-laughs, “Jesus.”

“What?” Steve says, slow. “No. Nah? I’m fine.”

Like, okay, he’s a little queasy? But like, he knows why. It’s not a _problem_ , but like. When Billy pulls him to the exit of the ride and leans his back against the wooden wall by the off-ramp, where the brats will find them when they stumble off the ride, Steve is kind of grateful to have something solid behind him.

From here, he can watch the people moving in and out of the snack stalls. String lights and bright bulbs shouldn’t be so enticing, he knows Billy is right, but there’s something hypnotic about the way they trip and spin, swim as Steve blinks. It’s so much easier with something keeping him steady.

He’s been to the park a thousand times, so he knows which booth promises cotton candy and which booth is turkey legs. His stomach rumbles in a way that’s nearly embarrassing.

“You act like their babysitter.”

“They’re like, useless. They need one.”

“How fucking old are they?” Billy asks. “I don’t remember being that fucking needy.”

He’s got his vape out again, taking puffs between sentences. Steve doesn’t know where he’s looking or what face he’s making, but he can smell chemical blueberry pie as the lights ahead grow cloudy. 

Does second hand vapour still buzz you a bit? Steve’s never looked it up. He still keeps menthols tucked in his glove compartment for the odd time he gets an itch. But he’s got theories.

“They’re only getting worse,” Steve says, like, “Seriously, I don’t know why they can’t just like, do normal shit, like regular teenagers? None of them even has a license? I got my license like, the day I could, like, fifty percent so I could get fucked up in the quarry without needing a lift.”

“Shit, really?” says Billy, like maybe he’s grinning. “Then why are you so _bad_ at this? Forgot that Princess Stevie always needs his hand held.”

They’re standing shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing. Billy’s voice keeps dipping low, like maybe he’s telling Steve a secret. It pinches something in Steve’s chest, makes his veins tight, even with how fucking loose his body is.

He feels like people are watching them, but can’t muster up the guts to see who. It might be no one. He thinks maybe it might just be Billy, and he isn’t sure he wants to know what that means.

So, he says, “I’m _not_ , Jesus. We’ve been _over_ this. Like, _sue me_ for feeling fucking good.”

Billy shifts his feet, changing his position so their shoulders press more. Steve’s not looking, but he can tell Billy’s tilted so his back isn’t quite against the wall. He knows, because the next cloud of blueberry pie goes right in his face.

“You still watching your lights?” Billy asks.

“No,” Steve lies, like, “I’m thinking. Like. About how those shits expect so much? They just _left_ me with you? Like I wasn’t coming in to hang out with them? Not that I would fucking want to. I don’t know why I’m here?” 

Steve swallows, doesn’t want to look. Thinks that if he looks at Billy, he might die. Says, “None of them are even related to me? Like Dustin _acts_ like he is, and Claudia might actually think she’s my mom? But she’s not. She’s his mom.”

And, like. Billy probably doesn’t even know who the fuck Claudia _is,_ he’s pretty sure. 

Steve realizes he’s rambling. That doesn’t mean he can stop. 

There something buzzing in the back of his throat, a sort of pulsing that comes with the heat of Billy’s breath on his cheek. Billy’s not vaping anymore, just looking at Steve, and Steve’s not even sure if that’s real, or if he’s paranoid, or if he’s reading into things.

He still _thinks_ he might not be, but.

But that doesn’t make _sense_.

And he doesn’t -- he’s never -- not even drunk at a party, with some pretty girl on his lap, saying he has to do it, it’s a dare.

He’s _thought_ about it. Billy’s _handsome_. But everyone thinks about that shit sometimes, so--

He’s not even sure what he’s worried about anymore, but he realizes that Billy’s been talking, and he hasn’t been listening, and maybe he needs to pull himself together.

He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the way the lights still sway. How the music from the ride is a song he knows. But he can’t come up with the artist, with Billy saying, “--so take a number? Like, I didn’t ask for Max.”

“She’s not so bad.”

“What? She’s a bitch.”

“She copies half the stuff you do. She’s wearing a fucking jean jacket.”

“So? That’s just what fucking teenage girls do now.”

Billy’s nose brushes the fine hairs on Steve’s cheek, and Steve knows he’s not reading into things. There’s no fucking way.

But why? And why is Steve _letting_ him?

Billy keeps pushing, because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.

It might be a game.

Whatever it is, Billy grabs Steve’s jaw and turns his head enough to meet his gaze. Billy’s eyes are hooded, a little red, stoned and hazy. There’s a callus, or maybe a scab, on Billy’s thumb that scratches just under Steve’s jaw. For a split second, Steve wonders how that thumb would feel in his mouth.

The rollercoaster must reach its peak, drop, because there are shrieks, and then Billy is craning forward to kiss him, open-mouthed. 

It’s dizzying -- _surreal_. 

Steve wants Billy closer, twists so his hands are in Billy’s shirt, Billy tugging him forward by his belt loops.

It’s confusing.

Billy kisses him slow and firm, controlling. He licks into Steve’s mouth all lazy and arrogant, like he owns it, and Steve can’t just let that slide, because, like. Steve is the one who makes moves, convinces girls he’s what they want, shows them what they’re in for when he kisses them.

He’s also straight? There’s that.

When Billy digs his fingers into Steve’s hips, Steve scratches his nails over Billy’s bare neck. For a second, he wonders if Billy regrets cutting his hair sometimes, or if he likes the welts left behind his ears. Obvious prizes raked into his skin.

He probably does. He groans, soft, when Steve bites his bottom lip.

But Billy pulls away first. “What were you saying?” he asks, all bedroom rasp, honey-sweet. The way Steve talks to girls.

“Becky isn’t missing much,” Steve says, like a liar. Like he isn't trying to chase Billy’s mouth.

Billy seems to know it, too. He meets Steve’s eyes, rubs his thumb over Steve’s bottom lip. The nail catching just inside his mouth and drags it down. It’s too much. Feels a little like his mind is being read.

“Are you _fighting?_ ” Dustin shouts from the top of the ramp. “I swear, we left you for two seconds--” like the kids didn’t leave them alone for a fucking hour and a half. 

But that’s not why Steve wants Dustin to trip and smash his new dentures. He actually doesn’t know why he wants that.

He pushes Billy back with two fingers to the chest. As if he can pretend they were fighting, and like Max isn’t coming down the ramp like, “Jesus Christ, we were gone five minutes.”

They were not gone five minutes. They were maybe gone an eternity? Steve needs to catch his breath.

“Whatever, are we getting fucking funnel cake?” Billy calls.

“Uh, I thought you wanted turkey legs?” Mike asks. That bitch face, right there? Is the exact reason he’s still Steve’s least favourite. He wasn’t even likable when Steve was regularly banging his sister.

“I want both,” says Billy. “You owe us, remember?”

“Uh, no,” Max says.

“Uh, _yeah_.”

There’s an itchy spot on Steve’s cheek that’s probably the ghost of Billy’s stubble, and Steve has no fucking clue what to do with that information. He says, “I want my own funnel cake?”

Face serious, snarky, Max holds up a finger and says, “One funnel cake.”

“And two turkey legs.”

“ _Fine_.”

“I want a turkey leg,” Dustin says.

Billy thumps his hand down on Dustin’s baseball cap, says, “Good for you, Toothless.”

“You’re such an asshole! I have a condition!”

##### Billy’s not really sure why he does the things he does.

Like, he’s been over this?

Steve’s following his brats through the snack booths, touching his lips like a teenage girl, and Billy knows he’s staring. He kind of hopes the kids don’t notice. Not that it would matter. 

Max and Lucas order three funnel cakes while Dustin and Wheeler’s brother fuck off to get the turkey legs, so Billy’s slouched at a table for two on the patio next to the donut shop. The rest of the teens are squished into the table next to him, and he should have been polite and sat at the four person table on their other side, so two of them won’t be sitting alone, but he kind of also hates them, so?

Steve sits across from him and picks at his fingers, looking between Billy’s neck and the bumps on the white metal table-top, like he thinks Billy can’t see his blown pupils checking him out. He’s still too obvious, too clumsy. All big bambi eyes and watering mouth. 

The powdered donuts smell so fucking good. 

Billy twists his nose ring and bumps his boot into Steve’s shoe like, “Think you’ll spew if we get dessert?”

“Dude,” Steve says. He’s not moving his foot away. It wasn’t Billy’s _plan_ , but now that it’s sort of happening -- “ _Yes_.”

Max’s stupid friends aren’t fucking listening to them, too busy shouting something about how Dragon Mountain isn’t worth their time, because it doesn’t even look like a mountain? It’s just some twisty coaster with horrible restraints that Byers’ younger brother says he _always_ feels like he’s going to fall out of, and.

Billy really doesn’t fucking care? He rubs the toe of his boot over the inside of Steve’s ankle. 

It’s not that he’s obsessed with Steve. He’s never been _obsessed_. It’s just hard not to fuck with him when he gets riled up so easily, is so goddamn petulant when Billy prods.

He doesn’t _do_ dudes, alright? That’s not his thing?

But something about Harrington makes him want to fuck him up, and he’s too old to be throwing punches at pretty boys. Feels way more eager to do it with his fingers.

He grins, slick and easy, as Steve meets his eyes, Steve’s mouth a little open, his lips a bit puffy like he’s been biting them, or like he’s been kissing, or like he’s been sucking dick.

That, Billy would like to see. He adjusts his jeans and leans his elbows on the table, chin in his hand. “Is that a yes, donuts?” he asks, “Or a yes, you’re gonna hurl?”

“It’s a fuck you,” Steve says. He crosses his arms, but he’s sliding his feet a little wider, not just letting Billy run his foot higher up the inside of his shin, but giving a big goddamn green light. “I thought we were having dessert already?”

"So?" 

Billy toes at the inside of Steve’s knee. He can’t tell where his foot really is, through the boot, but the way Steve’s lips purse a little tells him all he needs.

Max drops their funnel cake on the table with a _thwump_. She doesn’t set it down like a normal human, no, she’s gotta let it plop, making the healthy tower of vanilla ice cream on top waver and send strawberry puree splattering to the table.

She doesn’t tell them to share, just stabs two forks in the ice cream and sits across from Lucas to start on their own.

“See? Bitch,” Billy says.

“I can fucking hear you.”

“I _know_.”

They aren’t getting the donuts. Steve’s only half way through his turkey leg before he’s like, “I’m going to hurl.”

“Aw, sweetheart, need me to hold your hair?”

Billy’s in the process of sliding his foot into Steve’s lap, so it’s fucking rude that Steve spreads his thighs wide, forcing his foot to hit the ground.

“Hey,” Billy points with his turkey, “You wanted to eat most of the ice cream, and I was a good guy, alright? I let you have what you want?”

Steve grimaces and pushes the soupy remains of their funnel cake across the table. “All the kids fit in the Camaro if they sit on each other’s laps, right? I can go now?”

“We’re sixteen, Steven,” Dustin says. “We’re not children.”

“I’m not getting in his car,” Wheeler’s brother adds, like that was even an option.

Steve gives the kid a nasty side-eye, but hands him the rest of his turkey anyway, says, “Then you’re all walking home.”

“But, _Mom_ ,” Max says, dramatic.

“Yeah, _Mom_ ,” El echoes.

“That’s not even sort of cute,” Billy says.

Wheeler looks between the girls and Billy, clears his throat. “I think it is?”

“No one fucking cares, Mike,” Steve cuts in. “Can we go somewhere that’s not food, please?”

But the problem with theme parks, is that food is kind of everything, so Billy doesn’t know where the fuck they’re meant to go?

“We’re going on The Mountain,” Max says, standing up.

Byers makes a horrified face. He says, “Do we have to?”

“Uh, duh,” Wheeler, Mike, _whatever_ says. “It’s the best? Don’t be a pussy.” He looks at Steve. “Are you guys coming?”

“ _No_ ,” Steve says, bracing his elbows on the table as he rubs his face.

He’s such a dramatic bitch, Jesus Christ.

Billy puts his foot in Steve’s lap.

“Mike,” El says. She sounds kind of angry, but in that tone women use when a guy knows exactly what he’s done wrong. She’s like sixteen and like, is weird, and was homeschooled? Which means she’s had exactly two years to perfect it, and she’s already a pro, so.

After a second, Mike says, “Oh,” and turns back to Byers like, “But like, it’s okay if you don’t want to go on the ride? Like. You can hold the bags or something? I can sit with you?”

And what is _that_ about?

Billy doesn’t actually care?

“I’m not doing more rides,” Steve says.

“Okay, but we paid a lot of money to do fuck all?” says Billy, “Like, if this was the level of amusement I was gonna get, I should have spent the night with Rebecca?”

Steve lets Billy’s foot drop, kicks it for good measure. “I promise I will puke on you.”

“Right, well,” Max says. She picks up her garbage. “Have fun. Remember, you did this to yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

Maybe Max would have been mean to those bitchy teens they saw earlier. She’s starting to have this shark-thing happening when she smiles. Billy is almost proud?

Once the kids are gone, Billy gets up and hauls Steve up, one hand in his armpit, like, “Come on, Bambi. Think the arcade will be fine on your tummy?”

“Bambi?” Steve grumbles, kinda angry, but he lets Billy drag him around.

“Uh, yeah?” says Billy, “Like, that pathetic deer? That’s basically you.”

And the big, innocent brown eyes. Not that Billy is dumb enough to fall for that schtick. He’s seen Steve shove his hands up some chick’s skirt at a party, and he’s seen him pissed, pissing on some guy’s shoes for calling him a rude name. He’s _done_ things. He’s just also kind of a _baby_.

“Dude, stop touching me,” Steve says, pushing him off. “I can walk, Christ.”

Billy still steers him to the arcade by the elbow, but it’s because Steve says he fucking hates that shit.

Everyone Steve knows is so fucking dramatic. You’d think Hawkins was the home of a liberal arts school, and not some quiet shithole with a weird tourist district on the outskirts, born from this tacky mall they built in the eighties that was apparently a Big Deal then, or something.

It’s kind of gaudy? Steve would rather go to the mall by his college, after class. That place is sick. They have free wifi and an app that lets you interact with the mall map on your phone? Not that Steve needs that, he’s got like, an amazing memory and a great sense of direction, _but_.

It’s sweet, that’s all. Like. _Tubular_. 

Like maybe Starcourt Mall was in the eighties? Now it’s just kind of flooded with tourists who think that Hawkins Playland is the place to be on a budget vacation.

Like he said to Billy, he _knows_ it’s not Disneyland. He gets it, but he doesn’t _get_ it.

He doesn’t remember what he’s complaining about.

The arcade buzzes with pinging sounds and motorcycle revving, traditional games back to back with modern racing games. It’s kind of too much stimulation, but in a good way. Like, maybe if he focuses on hitting buttons the right way, or shooting baskets, his gut will settle.

He really can hang, normally, he wasn’t lying. Like, of course the one time his trip turns sour, it’s gotta be with Billy fucking Hargrove trailing around behind him, pulling his pigtails, like, “Think you can land more baskets than me, Captain? I got a basketball scholarship. You know that?”

“Yeah, dude, I think like, literally everyone in fucking Hawkins knows that?” Steve says. “Are we going to play?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to kick your ass. My high score is going to make the machine fucking come, dude, like. You’re gonna weep when you see how many tickets it gives me.”

Sure, right. Steve’s like, “You do remember I was team captain for a reason?”

“Because you sucked everyone’s dicks for four years?”

Steve’s _not_ thinking about Billy’s thumb in his mouth, and it’s _not_ making his dick twitch.

“Fuck you. I’m just a good shot. And a nice guy.”

“Right, King Stevie.” Billy licks his lips. “Then put your money where your mouth is. Unless it’s _really_ sucking dicks, in which case, I think you’re gonna be too busy to play.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

Because it seems like the longest period of time Billy has shut up this whole night was when he had his tongue down Steve’s throat, and that’s a whole rabbit hole Steve is actively trying to avoid. Badly, but.

“I think you like it,” Billy says, smiling shitty. He taps the little wristband they gave him with digital game tokens on it and waits for Steve to do the same, rolling his shoulders as the metal gate lifts and the basketballs tumble down.

The timer buzzes.

Steve grabs for the first ball. Maybe this was a bad idea, stomach and all. This was probably planned to put him at a disadvantage. But Steve’s not a pussy, he’ll take the challenge.

They say confidence is sexy? Not that he’s like, trying for Billy, or whatever.

Kids scream and run by, bumping into their backs as they shoot hoops. The rubber under Steve’s fingers feels good and solid, familiar, even if he’s just playing on a rec league at his community college lately. He likes the burn of exercise, misses what it was like with the guys pushing him on the court, struggling to be the best team in Indiana, like they even had a chance.

He tries not to watch Billy, or be distracted by the lights of the other games. Just focuses on how his fingers rest against the lines on the balls, the _smack_ and _woosh_ as they bounce off the backboard and fall into the hoop. 

“Gonna make you come, baby,” Billy promises, and Steve _knows_ he’s talking to the machine. He’s not sure if that’s worse than how Billy laughs when Steve’s next ball hits the top corner of the backboard and goes flying out of the netting.

“Hey!” Some girl shrieks.

Steve clamours to get the ball, says, “Sorry, sorry.” Might throw up.

In the time it took him to retrieve the thing and stand his ground to make the next shot, he’s pretty sure Billy has sunk, like, _four_ baskets already. And they just keep coming.

Steve should be in his element right now, but he’s overwhelmed; Billy’s next to him grinning wildly, blue eyes lit all neon in the glow of the games, and Steve’s got the ball in his hands and he can fucking _smell_ it, that thick, plasticky scent that conjures visions from the past — of scraped knees and palms when he was a kid, and later, in high school, the feeling of sweaty skin pressing against his own on the court for just a _second_ longer than could be explained away, and —

Suddenly his mind’s less fixed on his stomach, and his head’s cleared enough that he’s frozen there, watching Billy’s score tick up and his own stay steady, thinking, like.

What the _fuck_ happened at the exit of The Beast?

And what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?

Because Billy can’t just _do_ that, he can’t just come back after all this time and pin Steve up against a wall and blindside him and then expect that they’re just gonna go one-on-one shooting fucking _hoops,_ like. 

It seems like a sick joke, too, to have done this to him, specifically. Of all the games they could play. Those new arcade versions of Mario Kart are _super_ fucking fun. Or they could be playing skee ball, because Steve’s not half bad at that. Or even that deer hunting shooter game, like. That’s not even really Steve’s bag, but he’s pretty sure Billy would be all over it.

Of course, though, Billy’s gotta pick the basketball game.

It’s like he’s trying to mess with Steve’s head. And maybe he is. 

Or.

Maybe he’s just showing off because of this long-running _thing_ they have together, this stupid fucking rivalry, or maybe he’s just finding common ground, or maybe Steve is just very, stupidly high and overthinking things, but.

Whatever it’s meant to be, it feels like _unfinished business_ to Steve, but he’s unable to process it because now Billy’s laughing boisterous, fucking clapping Steve on the back while he heckles him, like, “Nothing’s changed since high school, huh, King Steve? Still all talk — still playing like _shit._ ”

The lights are flashing with their final scores are displayed, and Steve is still _standing_ here, just, like. 

Unsure of how he ran out of time so fast.

“That’s not fair,” Steve says, aware he’s being a poor sport. He kicks his foot at the machine. “You shouldn’t be able to lose balls. It threw me off my _game.”_

Billy’s squatted down, eager to receive the stream of red tickets being fed out of the tiny slot. It seems like they’re never gonna fucking stop. He looks gleeful like a little fucking kid.

“You don’t have any game, dude,” Billy says when he tears his from the machine. He sort of simpers at the few that came out on Steve’s side. Rips them out and proffers them to him. 

Steve snatches them away. Shoves them unceremoniously into his back pocket without counting them.

Billy’s standing again, running the tip of his tongue along his lower lip like he always does, and Steve sort of hates that he now knows what it feels like to have it run along his own. 

He hates, even more, that part of the reason he’s _so_ goddamn distracted right now is that he might have come down from the peak of his high, but he’s not sure he’s _ever_ coming down from how it felt to touch Billy like he did, just a while before.

“Loser gets to pick the next one, so,” Billy says, “Where to, princess?”

And, like. Steve doesn’t really know what they’re pretending for, anymore. 

If he were braver — if he were sure he wouldn’t throw up turkey and ice cream — maybe he would tell him that next, they should go to Billy’s car, but.

 _Also,_ Steve’s not gonna give in to him so easy. Because wouldn’t Billy fucking _love_ that, right? Wouldn’t he love to get his way, like he’s so used to doing. Have Steve eating out of the palm of his hand.

No. Fuck that.

So, “No. No, I want a rematch,” Steve says. “You just got lucky that time.”

And when Billy laughs, it makes Steve want to fucking. 

Push him down. Shut him up. _How_ he would shut him up, that’s still to be decided, but.

Billy raises his eyebrows and bites his lip.

“Okay. Whatever you say,” he says, a drawl to it. And he edges in closer, making Steve back up and bump into the person playing next to them, but it’s starting to seem like they’re the only two people in the room when Billy tilts his chin up and says, “Captain.”

Steve _swears,_ he’s gonna kill Billy.

Is it any surprise? Billy wins. Still has the highest score for the stupid basketball game.

Competition only creates momentum for Billy. He performs better under pressure. And Harrington’s still all doe-eyed and spacey. Too baked to be functional.

They run through almost every game in the entire place. (Billy beats Steve at most of them.) Steve’s pretty good at the actual video games, it turns out. They have this extra large Galaga thing set up in the back of the arcade, and maybe Steve’s been hanging out with the brats more often or something, because he gets his initials in blinking block letters, only second to _MADMAX._ Even beats out what Billy’s sure must be the initials of the other baby nerds.

“What happened to you?” Billy asks, leaning against the machine as Steve stares up at the screen, grinning at his score. Steve slips his phone out. Takes a picture of it for his Insta story. “You’re a fucking nerd, now, too.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. Billy watches him tag Max and tap in a few of the eyeball emojis.

“Jesus, you are the most competitive fucking person I’ve ever met,” Steve says. “You just hate the thought of losing to me.”

“That isn’t true,” Billy says. “I let you win sometimes.”

He looks a little less pallid, less _green_ now. Or maybe it’s just the lighting in here — the glow of blue, the flashing reds and pinks, bathing Steve sort of an in-between purple — but life seems to have returned to his face. 

And Billy can’t help himself.

He never really can.

Billy touches the small of his back while he peers over Steve’s shoulder to see he’s still swiping through filters. His fingers graze over the fabric of his sweater. And when his pinky touches skin where the material’s rucked up, he doesn’t miss how Steve’s spine straightens up. Like he’s almost startled? 

Fuck, Billy _likes_ that he can do that. It tastes like power to him. That ignites something low in his stomach.

Steve finalizes the post and locks his phone, slides it away, and he looks up so they’re making eye contact. And _God,_ like, Billy’s brain’s not exaggerating just because he’s _horny,_ right? Steve’s lips really are that full? Really look that good? 

If no one was around right now, Billy might get closer and see what they feel like, again. He’s dying for it. It would be _so_ fucking good to just give in and do it. He wonders if Steve would allow it — would give him that much. He thinks, from the way Steve responds to his touch, things might be in his favor.

He rubs the pads of his fingers at the skin exposed to him — maybe dips down a little lower than he should, and Steve’s throwing a glance over his shoulder, anxious. Afraid of getting caught.

“You look better,” Billy tells him. 

“Do I?” Steve says, and to Billy’s ears, it’s almost breathless. 

“Uh-huh,” Billy says, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but. I’m kind of glad you got sick.”

Steve scoffs. “Thanks. So you could _win_ at the basketball game, or whatever?”

“You wouldn’t have won, anyway. Did you see how many tickets I have?”

“You’re a dick.”

“No, like. I’m serious. I haven’t done this in a really long time, since I was a kid. This whole arcade thing, it’s fun. And I don’t think I would have spent as much time here, if you weren’t gonna puke your brains out on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

“Well. Then you’re welcome,” Steve says. And he’s looking right at Billy’s lips. Billy can feel it. He pauses for a second, and he’s still letting Billy run his fingers dangerously close to the hem of his jeans, like that’s something that’s normal for them. “Thought you were too cool for all this nerd shit.”

“It’s not so bad, I guess,” Billy says. “So you’re feeling better?”

Steve’s nodding. “I’m, uh. Like. A _lot_ better, now.”

“Enough to, like,” he ventures. “Go somewhere?”

And _yeah,_ he realizes he’s. Being a little obvious. Not leaving a lot to the imagination here. But it’s like he can’t _stop_ himself, anyway. He’s let too many opportunities slip through his fingers before. He knows better.

He’s pretty sure Steve knows what’s up, anyway, so if he’s obvious, what does it matter? Steve has this little dumb act going — but he’s not stupid. He already knows what Billy wants. 

And, _Jesus,_ does Billy want. He feels like he’s never _wanted_ this badly in his life. It feels sick and poisonous and heavy inside him. It feels wrong. Something in him knows it’s _wrong._ That doesn’t make it go away, though. He’s been trying to make things go away for a long time.

But. Still. He wants Steve anywhere he can get him. Behind the food booths at the north end of the park. Or maybe in the Camaro, out in the parking lot. No shame. 

“We should probably, you know. _Actually_ go on another ride, before the night’s out,” Steve says, and he pushes away a little bit, but it’s to fumble in his back pocket. He fishes out his string of tickets. “You wanna cash in? See if we can get anything for this shit?”

“Sure do,” Billy says. He reaches in his own jacket. “I got a _fat stack_ of tickets burning a hole here. Maybe I’ll let you pool yours with mine. So I won’t feel so bad for you.”

“Wow. Flattering. Like, say what you will about Billy Hargrove, but you can’t say he’s not _selfless.”_

So they’re pushing their way to the front of the arcade, toward the prize booth, and why does the prize girl look kind of _smug_ when they step up?

She’s perched up on the counter with one leg tucked to her chest, and she has her hands crossed over it in front of her, all chipped black nail polish and mismatched bracelets. She’s got an eyebrow quirked up, and her lips sort of pursed. Her Hawkins Playland shirt has this little gaudy crest on it, reading _GAMES,_ and her nametag says _ROBIN._

“Hiya, sweetheart,” Steve says, stepping up to the counter and resting his hands on the wood, tickets crumpled under a fist. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, really fancy,” she says. It doesn’t look like she thinks it’s fancy, smiles kind of tight instead, _humouring_. “It’s almost like I work here, or something? You done playing, dingus?”

Steve bites his bottom lip a little. Maybe he _likes_ being called names, which _actually_ would make a lot of sense. He pushes his tickets over and cocks his head towards Billy. Says, “Yeah, think me and my buddy are going to hit up some rides. When do you get off? You free later?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar.” She hops off the counter. “Oh yeah, I’m free never.”

“Robin,” Steve sighs. “That’s so boring. You never wanna spend time with me.”

“Maybe if you weren’t cliche and gross, I’d make time?”

Steve bumps his elbow into Billy’s side like, “We’re good friends, seriously.”

The thing is, Billy doesn’t really care if that’s true or not? What he does know, is that there’s no fucking way Games Girl is coming on the rest of their little adventure. Not unless she wants to see her friend get finger banged behind the Spinning Teacups.

Which Billy hadn’t thought about, but now that he _has_ , well.

“C’mon, Robin,” Steve tries again. He doesn’t flinch when Billy’s fingers find his waist, tuck under the hem of his sweater. “It would be a good time? You, me, some cotton candy?”

“As much fun as that sounds,” Robin says, “I usually like to spend my time off as far away from this place as possible. And besides,” she grins, fucking _evilly,_ Billy thinks, in that girl way where it’s like she’s being nice, but he _knows_ she’s not being fucking nice. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your date.”

He scoffs. Because that’s so fucking ridiculous. “What are you _talking_ about. It’s not a date.”

But yeah, he’s not really taking his hand away from Steve, because he’s not going to let her scare him away from doing whatever the fuck he wants to. He’s not going to squirm for her.

Her eyes linger on his arm — he _feels_ it. She doesn’t press further, though. She probably knows it’s not worth fighting about.

But she’s still like, “So is this together, or separate?”

“Separate,” Steve rushes, like that’s obvious, because it _is._

“Okay, _okay._ God.”

He thrusts his wadded up tickets toward her like they’re poker chips, and she collects them. Begins to feed them through the machine, but not before frowning at them. “That’s it? Usually you’re better than _that._ Are you sure you didn’t lose some, Stevie?” 

And he’s irritably like, “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure,” but Billy sees him lowkey check his pockets. 

Robin’s all smug as she points into the brightly lit case beneath them. She taps her nails on the glass at the range Steve can choose from.

“So, for all your _winnings,_ you can either get a bouncy ball, or a yo-yo,” she says, “ _Or_ — and I think this might be more your speed — a mood ring.”

Steve just sort of. Stares at her. “What’s that even supposed to _mean.”_

“She’s saying that you’re like one of those dumb hippie, zodiac bitches,” Billy says.

“I’m _saying_ that he needs all the help he can get.”

Steve sort of squints between them. “You know what? You can actually _both_ get fucked.”

Steve begrudgingly jabs his index finger down on the glass case, at the little cotton-lined box of greyish-black rings. They’ve each got various designs.

Robin retrieves it and displays it on the counter before him. 

“You more of an elephant guy?” She asks while she points them out. “Or the yin and yang more your style?”

“I like the one with the weed leaves,” Billy says, looking sideways at Steve. Just to be a fucking dick to him. “I think it really suits you.”

And like, only Hawkins Playland would have a fucking weed leaf ring in an arcade that’s infested with children, but again. 

Does Billy have to say it? It’s a shithole. In that sort of _endearingly_ trashy way, though, he’ll admit.

“Technically, I’m supposed to say those are maple leaves, if anyone asks,” Robin says, smiling, leaning her elbows on the counter. “But, sure.”

“Whatever,” Steve says. “I want that one. That’s like, the least offensive to me.” 

“Don’t forget the chart, that’s the most important part,” Robin says as she pulls one from the little box beneath the counter. She slides it over.

But Steve’s busy trying to find a size that fits his index finger, so after Billy’s conjured up his stash of tickets, dug every last strip of red out of his pockets so that Robin may begin running them through the machine, he’s skimming over the pamphlet. 

“Dark blue means _romantic,”_ Billy reads. “Green means jealous. And black means stressed.”

“Pretty sure those operate on body heat,” Robin says. “So if that ever turns black, you should probably call 911, like, immediately.”

“Yeah, like I need jewelry to remind me that you guys make me wanna _die_ ,” Steve says. He gets a ring on and wiggles it, looking at it in the light when he’s satisfied. “This is fucking hideous.”

“Aw, you match,” Robin offers, as she feeds the last strip of Billy’s tickets through the machine.

“Is it turning orange?” Billy asks, leaning into Steve’s space, thumb slipping just under the waistband of his jeans. “Pretty sure that means impatient, buddy. What’s the rush?”

But Billy wants to crawl out of his skin, wonders how easy it would be to pin Steve’s ringed hand to the wall behind the arcade, get his tongue inside his mouth under the dancing lights of the ferris wheel. Steve’s never told him _no_ . It seems more like a _not yet_ , and the way he melts into Billy’s hand, lets Billy rub over the peach fuzz on his lower back, says a lot more about _that_ than the look he’s giving Robin.

“Can you guys not be mean to me right now?” Steve says. “I’m so fucking stoned, still.”

“Poor baby,” Robin says, not sorry at all. “Is there a colour for that?”

“Yeah, it’s fuck you.”

“ _Language_ , dingus,” Robin says. 

She feeds the last ticket through the machine and turns to face them with her hands on her hips, like, “Impressive.”

“So, what are my options?” Billy asks, maybe jostles Steve a little as he grins. “I’m thinking that lava lamp would look fucking fire in my room, at the frat.”

“Oh,” She says, but more like _oh_ , as in, “No, you can purchase one of those by the park entrance? Your frankly _amazing_ wealth of tickets will get you one of these grand prizes. Congrats.”

The thing is, she’s not actually funny, even if Steve snorts a laugh as she waves her hand over part of the glass case. There’s no lava lamps in there, for fucking sure. 

“Wow, Billy, that fat stack of tickets really did burn a hole,” says Steve. “Did all the other tickets fall out?”

“Yo, what? Like, that machine must be broken,” Billy says, like. He had a lot of tickets, alright? Fucking dominated those games?

“It’s not,” Robin says, cheerful and simple, kinda mean. “What’re you getting? The velcro monkey is very popular with children under the age of twelve, which seems pretty on brand for you. Or maybe the Hot Wheels? You can add it to your collection?”

Billy hasn’t had a collection since he was like, fifteen, but he’s not about to say that with his arm wrapped around the king of Hawkins, when he’s pretty sure he’s gonna get laid. 

He’s also not going to say that Steve would look adorable with that neon green monkey looped around his neck. He’s pretty sure that one is the weed talking?

Instead he says, “Maybe I should get the jawbreaker? Not that I need any more practice.” He lolls his tongue over his chin, pinching Steve’s back.

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, no, you’re never allowed to look at a jawbreaker again.”

Steve elbows him, says, “What about one of the cars? Like, that blue one there kinda looks like your whip?”

There’s only one blue car in the case.

Billy laughs, like, “Dude, I fucking wish? Do you even know what kind of car that is?”

“Uh, a stupidly expensive, douchey one?”

“That’s a _Lambo_ ,” Billy tells him, like, “How can you not tell that?”

Steve tilts to face him, putting their mouths close. He says low, almost bitchy, “I’m not seeing how I’m wrong?”

“Look, it’s the shape of the hood, and the lights?” Billy nods his nose towards the glass as he pulls Steve even closer. “Those are dead give-aways. It looks nothing like a vintage Camaro.”

“Yeah,” Robin says, dry. She waves a packaged one in the air. “It even says it right here? Amazing. Are you getting it, or what?”

“I _know_ , dude,” Steve says. He gestures to the case as well, points at the cars, one by one. “But unless you want the Jeep, or the monster truck, or that like, Honda Civic? You don’t have a lot of options?”

“What about this?” Robin holds up a different package. “We don’t have this in the case?”

Billy knows she’s not _trying_ to be a bitch, but, “Do you really think I’d want a BMW? Really? Do I look that basic?”

And he knows Steve probably still drives that shitty hand-me-down Beemer he got in high school, but that’s kind of the point.

“Take the fucking Lambo,” Steve says. “Jesus Christ, are we going to go on rides tonight, or what?”

Steve can tell the difference between a Lamborghini and a Camaro, alright? He’s not actually dumb enough to miss the insignia on the hood. So he really doesn’t appreciate Billy getting all up in his space again as they wait for the ride, pressing the unpackaged toy car into his face like, “These cars have pretty distinctive hub caps?”

Really, Billy could be saying absolutely anything? And Steve wouldn’t know, or care, because he’s kind of too distracted by the halo of light bouncing off Billy’s hair, each roving cabin of the ferris wheel changing how it glimmers pink and green and gold.

Billy smells like weed and blueberry pie, too much spicy cologne. 

_So you’re feeling better? Enough to, like, go somewhere?_

Like, _yeah_ , Steve was thinking about it too, but. Somehow that feels like letting Billy win? It already kind of feels like that, like Billy’s showing him off like a prize. Like Steve is even his to show. Steve’s not _like_ that. Not like _this_. 

There’s this group of teenagers ahead of them, maybe fifteen, sixteen years old, that keep glancing back at them, and. Steve pushes the car away and grimaces, pushing on Billy’s chest next. He says, “Yeah, I know, alright? I’ve got fucking eyes, dude. Chill.”

“What?” says Billy. He’s not budging, which means Steve’s hand is just kind of resting on his chest now, which means Steve’s really only got two options, and that’s leave it, or shove him more, and there’s just _something_ about Billy’s body heat, blueberry pie and spicy cologne.

Billy tightens his arm, like, “I’m chill, Princess, I’m just _saying_.”

To say Steve is thrilled when they’re finally stepping apart to get on the ride is maybe an understatement. He tells himself it’s because he needs some air, and not because this feels like being in that alley between the bathrooms, just far enough away from the crowds to be in the park and somewhere else all at once.

When it’s their turn to get in the car, a gaudy thing with a neon paint job straight out of the 80’s, they scramble to get inside. Billy gets in first and slides all the way to the window, so he can look out over the park, and Steve sits on the bench beside him. This cute girl with big curly hair -- who has _definitely_ been checking Billy out -- comes to slam the door behind them. Then, from the control box, she resumes snapping her gum and gives them what looks like a mandatory wave, like she’d rather be dead than spend her night running the ride.

And Billy’s looking out the window for a second as they start to rise -- something sort of childish about him as he looks down at the rainbow of stalls and lights and rides -- but then he’s turning around and giving Steve this _look,_ like.

What the fuck are they pretending for, right?

Steve feels something blooming in his chest. Like excitement. Maybe nerves. Because it’s like, everything that’s happened tonight, it’s all been leading up to this. 

Billy gets close to him. Puts an arm behind him, around his shoulders, so all Steve can smell is _BillyBillyBilly._ His cologne, the weed, his _deodorant,_ even. Steve is staring so hard at Billy’s lips, he’s sure Billy can tell.

“I was scared for a second there,” Billy tells him, low, and a smile breaks out onto Steve’s face.

“Yeah? Of the Ferris wheel? You pussying out on me? No shit. You can hold my hand, if you’re scared,” he says, feeding Billy’s stupid lines right back at him. 

“Fuck you,” Billy says, but he moves his arm so he can get his hand in Steve’s hair. Sort of starts curling pieces around his fingers, absently. Steve might lean into it, because, like. It doesn’t matter who’s doing it, right? Having your hair played with feels _nice._ “I meant when you invited Games Girl to hang with us.”

“Robin’s not bad,” Steve says. Billy’s curling his hair around his fingers. “Honestly? I’m amazed you didn’t try to hit on her.”

“Please,” Billy says. “You were embarrassing yourself enough for the both of us. Besides -- she’s not really my type.”

“She’s got a pulse, doesn’t she? Last time I checked, that’s like your only requirement.”

“Oh, so, what? _My_ standards are low? You think you’re funny, huh,” Billy says. Kind of just commenting. As if he’s surprised. “I wouldn’t talk so much shit if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause,” Billy says. “You’re not doing yourself any favors. I’m with _you,_ aren’t I?”

And he knows where this is going, but he’s anxious, because.

Because he’s never fucking _done_ this before. He wonders if Billy has. How many _times_ , even. 

Billy runs his tongue over his lips and all Steve can do is watch.

Steve’s heart is definitely tripping over itself to keep up. He probably shouldn’t be _as_ turned on as he is right now. He’s getting so fucking hard, it’s stupid.

But he tries to keep all that out of his voice when he says, “You wish, Hargrove.” 

As if he’s got to take him up on the challenge now, Billy has his other hand in Steve’s lap, dangerously close to where Steve wants him. Where he fucking _needs_ him. 

And he can’t believe _Billy Hargrove_ has his right hand in Steve’s hair, and his left hand poised to rub Steve through his jeans.

Or maybe under them. Jesus.

Steve’s breath hitches a bit when Billy moves to cup him, and he pushes his feet against the bench across from them, Adidas squeaking as he thrusts up to meet Billy’s hand.

And it sort of happens all at once from there -- maybe Billy was waiting for some green light, because now that the ride’s lifted them into the night sky, Billy’s tugging Steve’s hair, exposing his neck. Steve’s looking over the blinking lights of the park while Billy mouths at his throat, hot and wet and so overwhelming.

“Damn,” Billy says, nosing at Steve’s neck, and he squeezes his cock through his pants. “You always this easy, Princess? You let all the other guys touch you like this -- or am I special?”

That sort of. 

Goes straight to Steve’s cock. 

He really resents how that works.

“Suck a dick,” Steve spits out, to which Billy just _laughs._

“Only if you ask real nice.”

“Just kiss me again,” Steve’s saying before he can think it through, and he moves to catch Billy’s lips. 

They make out like that, all tongue and desperation, Billy’s hand moving to cradle Steve’s face. It’s strange, kissing Billy, when all he’s got to compare it to is kissing Nancy or Carol or Tina, or nameless girls he’s met at parties. Steve drinks it in, the scratch of his stubble, and the subtle push to _lead_ it, like Billy’s gotta have control.

And he _doesn’t stop him_ when Billy tugs on the zipper to his jeans. Or when he fumbles, one-handed, to pop the button -- in fact, he’s fucking helping Billy get in there, because this can’t happen soon enough.

He _does_ warn him, though. All breathless and hushed, like, “We don’t have a lot of time.” As if Billy can’t tell that -- they’re nearly at the top of the wheel’s arc. 

“Good thing it won’t take you long,” Billy says, biting at Steve’s ear.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I‘m not,” Billy says. “Just sayin’ you’re _easy,_ Princess. Look at you. Got your legs all spread out for me. Letting me jerk you off like this?”

“You talk too much,” Steve snaps, and he reaches up to Billy’s hair. Tugs his curls and holds him to his neck. Billy licks and sucks and nips at the skin there, gets Steve wondering what his mouth might feel like elsewhere.

Then Billy gets his fist around Steve’s cock. Rough, greedy fingers working him, dry. And _Jesus,_ it feels _bad_ because something in Steve knows he shouldn’t be doing this, with Billy of all people, but it’s also too fucking _good_ to tell him no. 

Steve lets his head roll back against the metal rail and tries not to push up into Billy’s fist too much.

“Billy,” he says, sudden. “You think anyone can see us up here? Maybe we should stop.”

“You’re still paranoid,” Billy says. “Besides. It’s hard for me to care right now. Been waiting to do this all fucking _night.”_

“I was getting that impression.”

“I know I can come on kinda strong,” he says, all smug. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only a little,” Steve’s smiling, and he can’t believe he’s letting Billy jerk him off like this, and God, he really wants to lick Billy’s palm so they can do this fucking _right,_ but that feels like a level of commitment -- a level of _realness_ that he’s not sure either of them is really ready for.

It’s strange, a little like deja vu, but _different_ now being on this side of things -- being the one getting felt up on the fucking Ferris wheel. When he was younger, he’d take Hawkins girls on here, and they’d peer over the side and try to point out, like, _Stevie, you can almost see my street from here,_ and Steve would be nodding like he was interested, all, _yeah, baby, that’s so cool,_ meanwhile he was _really_ only interested in trying to slip his hand down the back of her thong to see if she’d let him fuck her on his fingers until they came back around, and -- 

It’s just _weird_ now, having the guy who kicked his ass in high school sort of pulling the same shit on him.

And _why_ is everyone trying to fuck each other on this ride? Hawkins is fucking _tiny._ It’s hard to get someone alone. Gotta do what you gotta do. Gotta keep it _interesting,_ too, because like, Steve’s come down so many girls’ mouths at the quarry, it’s almost like. Kink extinction.

Billy sucks a little _too_ hard at Steve’s pulse and he’s squirming, half into it, half trying to get away. 

“Hey. _Hey,_ hey, fuck, don’t leave marks.”

Billy stops, gets level with Steve. Tilts his chin up and bites at his spit-shiny lips. “What? Why not? I like leaving marks.”

“Of course you do.”

“You embarrassed of me?” Billy says.

His phone buzzes. Steve feels it. Billy ignores it.

So Steve sits up straight. He puts his hand over where Billy’s fist is working beneath the fabric of his briefs and stops him. “ _No,_ I just. It’s gonna look kinda fucked if I get off the ride with you, and I’m covered in fucking _hickeys.”_

“Trust me,” Billy says. “I don’t want anyone to know, either. That’s why I’m trying to take you _home._ I don’t usually. _Do_ this, you know?”

Doesn’t do what? Hook up without any preamble? Because _somehow_ Steve doubts that.

He’s in a fucking _fraternity._

But if he means -- well. That he doesn’t hook up with _guys,_ then. First of all, that doesn’t seem to match up with the way he’s been acting tonight.

And Steve’s never thought he’d ever fuck around with guys, either.

But Billy’s looking at him with those long-lashed blue eyes, and his lips are _so_ goddamn shiny, and up this close, he can see tiny freckles dotting over his nose, and Steve’s thinking that maybemaybemaybe this could be something that changes everything about what he _thought._

“I don’t usually _do_ this kind of thing,” Billy repeats, like he’s not sure Steve heard him. Like he wants to _be sure_ that Steve did. 

His heart’s suddenly kicked into fucking overdrive, because that means, what? That Steve’s an _exception?_

But, “Me either,” Steve rushes, and Billy’s beaming at him. It’s a lot. “I’ve never, like.”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Billy’s phone buzzes again, and Steve feels it again, but it buzzes angrily a few more times and Billy _ignores_ it again, because now they’re fucking kissing again, all open-mouthed and sloppy-wet. It’s like they’re both unable to stop smiling into it. 

“You should probably get that,” Steve says, even though he doesn’t necessarily want to give him up. “It’s fucking annoying.”

“Fuck it,” Billy says. He’s still got his hand down Steve’s pants, and he squeezes his dick. Steve feels himself kick up under the pressure. “I’m busy.”

“No, no, what if it’s Max?” Steve says. “She could be in trouble or something.” He pushes away from Billy. Smears the back of his hand over his mouth and tucks his dick away, because Jesus Christ, they’re almost back on the ground again.

Billy’s huffing, all dramatic, but he pulls his phone out -- Steve is only half ashamed for watching. 

It’s not Max, it’s fucking _Rebecca,_ and Steve’s lowkey annoyed about the content of her messages, even though it’s probably his fault for spying. He’s absolutely the type to lurk and get his feelings hurt.

Rebecca’s all gross, the Billy female equivalent, like, _daddy wya??? Im wearing a surprise, come seeeee_

And, _baby my pussy’s dripping for u right now_

And, _it’s getting late billy wtf is going on. U still gonna come thru??_

And, _I know u have ur phone on u. What the fuck???_

But Billy clears his notifications, and he swipes down to hit that little moon so his phone’s set to Do Not Disturb, and he turns back to where Steve’s zipping himself back in.

“Come on, _daddy,”_ Steve says, a little proud at the way Billy stiffens. “Her pussy’s so wet for you.”

Billy rolls his eyes, but crawls over the space between them, and his voice is all growly, like, “Why would I give a fuck, when I got you in my bed instead?”

Steve puts his fingers to Billy’s chest and pushes him back onto the bench. “Nice try. I said I’m not going home with you, Hargrove.”

“It’s, like. A figure of speech.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not happening.”

“Then what about your house?” Billy tries. “The Harrington mansion. You parents are notoriously never home.”

Steve snorts. “Why does everybody always say that? So I got away with a few parties in high school. They’re actually, like. Annoyingly home too much.”

Billy fucking _whines._

“Whatever, we can fuck around in a car, then,” he says. “Please? What do I gotta say to get you away from here? Because I’m pretty sure I’ll say anything.”

 _God,_ there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, but at the same time? Jesus. He doesn’t know what the fuck they’d _do_ if they were truly alone. Out of the park. He doesn’t know what that would mean for him. But there’s safety in fucking around here.

“I want to,” Steve tells him. “But I really can’t, okay?”

“Bullshit,” Billy says, irritable. “That’s bullshit, but. Okay, then. What if we go back where we got high?”

A smile sort of breaks out onto Steve’s face, but he bites down on his lip over it.

 _“Fine,”_ he says. “But fix your fucking hair. We gotta get off soon, and you look guilty as fuck.”

As much as Billy begs and pleads and grinds his dick on Steve’s ass at the exit of the line, Steve isn’t budging. 

Which is really fucking annoying, because Billy hasn’t gone this hard at trying to get his dick wet in the history of ever, probably. 

But regardless, he lets himself be led -- or sorta _tugged_ by his sleeve, through the blinking lights and shrill screams and the scent of warm pretzels, to the other side of the park.

When they’re alone again, Billy’s not wasting time. He’s pretty sure the park closes soon, and whatever the fuck is going on between them, it’s been building, and now it feels so intense and heavy inside him, Billy imagines he’ll explode if he doesn’t get some release. 

He pushes Steve up against the stone walls, right where they smoked up before, and he likes how it seems to knock the breath out of Steve. Billy holds him by the collar of his sweater and smiles.

“You wanna get _high,_ baby?” 

“Give me a fucking break,” Steve huffs. “Jesus, do you ever quit it?”

“Not really,” Billy says, bringing their faces close together, “‘Least, not without a fight,” and then they’re kissing again, as hungry as before but more purposeful now. Billy isn’t shy about sliding his tongue into Steve’s mouth. He lets his hands drift. One holding Steve in place by his jaw, the other cupping him through his pants.

And Steve’s touchy, too. Slips his hands inside Billy’s jacket and feels up his body, sort of scrabbling and nervous, exploring as they work over his muscles. Billy wishes Steve’s hands would go _lower,_ though, but he lets him do whatever, because being admired like this -- by _King Steve_ especially, when he’s wanted nothing but this for so long, but never thought he’d _get it_ \-- it feels heady.

It happens in a blur. They’re prying their way into each others’ pants. Spitting all gross into their hands, unceremoniously, and starting to rub each other.

Billy can’t even really be _mad_ anymore about not being able to bully Steve to leave, because truth be told, he _really_ loves handjobs. He’s pretty sure he’s never had a bad one.

But this one is probably the best.

They’re not kissing anymore, just panting sort of obscenely into mouths, and leaning their foreheads together.

“Wanna fuck you so bad,” Billy babbles, though, because maybe he’s got a one-track mind. 

“Yeah?”

 _“Yeah,”_ he says, fucking into Steve’s fist, “like. Very, very bad. Why else would I chase you around this place all night?”

“That _hurts,_ man. Here I was, thinking you liked hanging out with me.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Billy says against Steve’s jaw, licking the skin there, and sort of pressing his nose against it to smell. “I still can’t stand you.”

“Believe me,” Steve’s panting out. “The feeling’s _so_ mutual.”

“I dunno,” he says, and he leans back again to look at Steve’s face as they rut into each other’s hands. Steve looks properly _fucked out._ All swollen lips and pink cheeks. Tiny hairs stuck to his temples because they’re so damp with sweat. “Don’t really look like you hate me so much right now.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says. Sort of stuttering over himself and stalling out. Like he can’t come up with a response fast enough to keep up with Billy.

Billy is inwardly proud of tripping him up.

“It’s okay, Princess, words are hard,” Billy says, their lips brushing as he goes in for a kiss. It’s too short, broken by Steve’s next soft moan. Has Billy wanting more than Steve’s dick in his hand.

Maybe it’s a hold-over from high school, always wanting to one-up Steve, come for his non-existent crown, but there’s a heady power in Billy’s blood from the way Steve bucks into his hand. Like Steve’s under his thumb, moldable as silly-putty. _Easy_.

Billy usually can't control himself, but this is something dangerous, something more -- electric, conductive. He thinks for a second that Steve's hands were made to be fucked, and isn't that a concept.

He says, "You must be fucking great at jerking off, shit." 

Which sounds a little too much like praise. He twists his wrist and croons hot against Steve's cheek, like, "You ever gonna be able to jerk off without thinking of me, after this?"

Steve speeds up his hand, breath hitching. _Easy_.

If they were in Steve's bedroom, or maybe in the bathroom of a seedy bar, Billy bets Steve would sink to his knees with one push on his shoulders. Bets Steve would take his cock in his mouth like a champ, no complaints. Might act like he's been aching for it. And he’d be _bad_ at it. He’d be sloppy and drooly and accidentally brush Billy with his teeth, and he’d _probably_ choke like, seven thousand times, but. 

It would also _probably_ be the hottest thing Billy has ever seen.

"Might as well take me home," Billy goes on, "Since you're gonna go there and jerk off again anyway."

Steve tugs on the top of Billy's hair, sharp, like, “Fuck you.” But his fingers tangle in the curls, stay lightly pulling, fucking dare Billy to move away.

Billy's not trying. He's way more likely to shove Steve's pants down and dig his fingers in that ass. But they're in a grungy alleyway filled with dead blunts and a rainbow of chewed gum, and that's not exactly polite, so.

He tucks his nose into Steve's neck and licks a strip, gross and greedy. 

Steve pulls his head to the side, nose scrunched, and says, "Does this shit work on girls?" Like maybe it's _not_ working on him. 

Billy doesn't say shit, just rubs his thumb over Steve's slit, teasing and intentional, before nipping a spot under his ear. He wasn't allowed to leave marks on the ride, but they're not on the fucking ride anymore, and Billy knows what he wants, what he likes. Keeps thinking about Steve touching his lips, hopes maybe he'll keep pressing against his bruises like that, as well. 

He'll also probably look like a slut, and like. Billy is way too fucking into that.

There's a crackle in the sky and a bang, pink light splashing over Steve's cheeks. Instantly, Steve's hand is looser, less engaged. He's just kind of panting, like, moving into Billy's hand, a whine stuck somewhere in his throat. 

"You're fucking kidding me," Billy says, pulling his head back.

Steve's not kidding, has his head tipped back to watch as the next firework goes off, sparks and stars reflected in his glassy eyes. 

It's some gross rom-com shit, is what it is.

Like, _fine._ If he’s gotta, he can work with it.

Billy knocks Steve’s hand out of the way and takes a deep breath as he shifts closer, wraps both their dicks in his fist. They slide together, slick with spit and pre, and it’s not like fucking someone in the ass, obviously, but like. He’s basically getting off on Steve’s cock, and that’s a lot to process.

Before it was a handjob -- maybe something kind of impersonal, even with the kissing, more like a friendly circle jerk -- but now he’s pressed to Steve, tip to tip. It’s too surreal. He feels over-hot, knowing what he wants, what he shouldn’t have. Like maybe this is a step closer to _sex-sex_. Like maybe he broke some kind of boundary he didn’t even know they fucking had.

Steve gasps, eyes downwards a second, like maybe he gets it too. He digs his nails into Billy's neck as the next firework pops. 

It's too right, gorgeous, fucking _girly_. Steve looks like he wants something, as their eyes meet, and Billy thinks he knows what, but.

He can’t kiss him on the mouth. 

He swerves around Steve’s chin, goes back to his neck instead. Drags his teeth over raw skin as Steve shudders.

“Watch your lights,” Billy murmurs, but he knows he doesn’t have to. Steve is already letting his head fall back, hips kicking as fireworks crackle and rain.

“Baby,” says Steve, and it’s hardly a word, too breathy and dreamy. Misplaced.

“Yeah, baby?” Billy mimics. Eyes tight-shut, hand jerking faster between them.

A firework bangs and fizzles. Steve cracks up, tugging on Billy’s hair with both hands. “You’re into that shit?”

“Petnames?”

Steve just laughs more, half his sounds broken by moans. “Sure, yeah. _Baby._ ”

And Billy doesn’t get it, because like? He’s just trying to get them off. Otherwise, that shit wouldn’t be leaving his lips. This isn’t meant to be romantic, it’s meant to be quick, and Steve might be the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever touched, but --

Three loud bangs ring through the air, echoing in the gap between the buildings.

“You can call me whatever you like,” Billy says. 

He’s lazily nipping at Steve’s skin, sucking and biting the skin above his collarbone, and when he does it a little hard, a little _mean,_ Steve squirms like he doesn’t like it. But his cock jumps against Billy’s hand, so. 

He’s gonna have fun seeing where that goes, like, if they ever happen to do this again.

And he _knows_ that’s kind of crazy, to already be thinking about a round two, but first of all, Billy’s always thinking about round two -- and second of all, if Billy dies without ever having Steve Harrington laid out under him in bed, he will have big, _big_ regrets. 

It’s always been some moth to the flame kind of shit with Steve.

It’s like Billy’s _driven_ by it, even though he knew he could never have him, could never truly give himself over to it.

And it seems stupid, fucking unreal that he’s got him here now. Something in him wonders why he couldn’t bring himself to do this earlier, even though he knows -- like, he fucking _knows_ \-- that this is only something that could happen here, where it’s loud and distracting and so busy, _Billy_ can’t even sort out what’s really going on.

He likes that he doesn’t have to think, right now, because.

Things are easier that way.

Billy’s sort of let his head drop now, forehead resting on Steve’s shoulder so he can look down between them. 

He’s drunk off the sight of both of their dicks rutting against each other under his fist. Steve’s hands roam down his body, bunch Billy’s jacket between his fingers, tug at him like he’s trying to bring him even _closer._ Like that’s possible.

“You gonna come like this?” Billy breathes.

Steve huffs out a laugh, trying to move his hips with Billy’s strokes. “Probably.”

And Billy likes how he sort of sounds a little _embarrassed_.

“I mean, that’s if I let you.”

Steve’s still all smug, says, “Yeah, uh. As _if_ you’re gonna stop right now --”

So Billy _does,_ just to prove a point. Even though he’s kind of getting close.

He’s always been a fan of edging, anyway.

And he looks up, now, brings their faces together so they’re nearly touching.

Steve looks into Billy’s eyes, then at his lips, then into his eyes again, and at his _lips_ again, and he looks half like he’s looking for a kiss and half like he’s wondering _why the fuck did we stop,_ and.

He pulls on Billy’s jacket, tries to slide their cocks together again, struggling when he realizes Billy’s loosened his grip, isn’t giving him the stimulation he needs anymore. Steve whines a little, frustrated. 

“What, you get off on that? You want me to beg you, or something?”

Billy runs his tongue over his lower lip. “Couldn’t hurt to try.”

Steve’s rolling his eyes, which is stupid, because Billy can visibly _tell_ he’s into all this, but Steve is impatient, is the thing -- will do what he’s gotta do to get his way.

So he indulges Billy, looks him in the eye while he’s like, “Please, baby.” He untangles one hand from the jacket so he can touch it to Billy’s hand, encouraging. “Billy, please.”

And somehow it’s even _hotter_ than Billy could’ve imagined.

 _“Fuck,”_ he says, and he lets himself pick up the pace just a bit. “Yeah? Come on, Princess. I don’t know if you need it bad enough.”

The fireworks pop and explode over them, washing Steve in orangey-gold. He’s all fucked-out looking, lips shining wet and eyes dark with want.

Steve digs his nails into Billy’s wrist, tries to make him go even faster. Billy stays as steady as he can. 

“I need it,” he’s panting out. “Need it _so_ bad, Billy.”

“Need what?” Billy says. “You need to _come?”_

“Fuck yeah, baby,” Steve says, and his eyelids are heavy, like _all_ he wants to do is let them slip shut and give in to the feeling, but he’s intent on watching Billy. “Wanna come. For you.”

Yeah, _that_ kind of talk really fucks Billy up.

“You’re so _easy,_ baby,” he’s sneering. And maybe he’s a lot of talk, but Billy’s about to bust right fucking now, too. “You’re just gonna come all over yourself like that?”

God, he looks good like this. Steve’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he looks sort of _high_ on sensation as Billy strokes over them both.

“Please,” he says, which is probably the sweetest fucking sound Billy’s ever heard in his life. _Steve Harrington_ asking him nicely. “Baby -- faster, I’m gonna. Please.”

So Billy obliges -- but _only_ because he’s had blue balls for like half the fucking night. If Billy had his way with Steve at home? He’d draw this out for as long as he’d like. Get Steve thrashing and bucking and whining beneath him until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Steve comes first, and when it happens, Billy almost can’t believe this is real life.

His hips stutter and he’s babbling, all, “Baby, baby, I -- I’m -- _fuck --”_ And Billy feels elated to have stirred this _out_ of Steve? He’s awed, watching Steve’s body tighten up, and his eyelids flutter, and his come spurting from the head of his cock and dribbling down _Billy’s_ cock.

It doesn’t take Billy long after seeing that. After _thinking_ about it, how he’s now using Steve’s come to get himself off.

Steve sort of hisses and pushes away like the pleasure’s too much, so when Billy finishes, he jerks himself off onto Steve’s over-sensitive cock and the hair around it.

If Billy weren’t so blissed out right now, riding the waves of his orgasm, and trying to come to terms with the fact that his high school self just got _so_ much more than he ever thought he would, Billy would _really_ be pissed at the fact that their timing is impeccable. 

That the finale of the fireworks erupts overhead while they’re both still spun out on endorphins.

Like, what can he say.

Billy’s nothing if he’s not a romantic.

Not caring about the mess between them, he just collapses forward into Steve’s neck, nose pressed to the skin that now smells sweet and familiar of his own saliva. Steve lets his head drop against the wall, all blissed out, if the unevenness of his breathing is anything to go off.

“God _damn,”_ Billy mumbles. Coming always feels _so_ fucking good when his head’s still fuzzy with a high.

Steve laughs. An easy, weightless sound. “God damn is _right.”_

And they’re kind of suspended like that for a moment. With their pants torn open, dicks out. Ridiculous. Imagine if someone found them like this.

The roar of the post-firework applause swells and seems to envelope them, and it’s _real_ fucking good. Billy doesn’t really want this to ever stop, because it’s so perfect. 

But the thing about the weekend fireworks is that they happen right before the park closes, like a proper send off.

Meaning this is about to end, and.

Right on cue, or some shit, Steve’s phone chooses that moment to go the fuck off before either of them can say another word.

Dustin calls while Steve’s still coming down from his orgasm, which is the most _sobering_ thing in the fucking world.

Steve cradles the phone on his shoulder and tucks himself back into his jeans. He listens to Dustin bitching about how Billy’s not answering Max’s texts, which she’s only even sending because El’s dad wants her back home early tonight, so they need to come to the front gate right now, and then Dustin’s bitching more about how he can’t believe Steve abandoned him and Lucas before the end of the night fireworks when Steve _knows_ how important it is to them, and what could Steve and Billy be doing that’s _so_ important they couldn’t shoot a quick text back?

“I was worried _sick,”_ Dustin huffs into the receiver, all dramatic. “I thought Billy killed you for good, this time.”

Meanwhile, it’s fucking ironic, isn’t it? Because Billy’s got himself all fixed up now, too, but he reaches over and wipes his wet palm on the inside of Steve’s sweater. Smiles while he does it like he’s proud of himself. Fucking gross.

Now cool come is clinging to Steve’s stomach and he’s not even sure if it’s his, or Billy’s, or _both,_ and that’s --

A lot.

“You think you’re hilarious,” Steve says while he’s looking into Billy’s eyes. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t think, Steve -- I _know_ I am. Now can you guys stop dicking around, and meet us up front? Like, you _realize_ El’s dad is the cops, right? He’s _the_ _cops,_ Steve, and I’m not trying to --”

 _“Bye,_ Dustin.”

Steve’s not sure when the next twenty hours happen, lost somewhere between finding the kids to stuff them into his car, listening to Mike bitch about how he’s gotta sit bitch (which is _why_ he’s fucking sitting there,) sleeping, and waking up to his mom telling him (rather than asking him,) _Do you have time to stain Nana’s deck today?_

So he’s kind of shocked to realize that it’s already dark out, and he’s been lying in his bed in his boxers for about half an hour, and no one has fucking said anything to him? Not a fucking peep. 

He’s got Netflix playing Riverdale, watching it kind of absently, looking through it, and like.

When they were making their way out of the park last night, Dustin had kept squinting at him. Like, that proper, whole-face squint he does when he thinks something smells bad, but he also thinks it’s probably a scientific marvel. And Steve hadn’t been thinking too much about it then, trying pretty hard not to think too much about _anything_ , with his clothes sticking to his body, damp in all the wrong places.

He’d come home. He’d showered. He’d spent too much time with his dick in his hand, the other scrubbing at his pubes, and now that he’s thinking about it, it wasn’t even _his_ come he was washing off.

Which is.

It’s, well.

When he’d crawled out of bed this morning, like, _Yeah, Mama, I’ll call her after breakfast_ , he’d only blinked at himself in the bathroom mirror long enough to brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair.

His grandmother had been squinting at him the same way Dustin had, now that he’s thinking about it. Looking at him like he’d said something gross and unusual, when she’d asked, _Did any of the stain make it on the deck?_

On screen, Betty says something to Veronica, head tipped and ponytail swaying, and normally, Steve’s attention would be on the stretch of her neck, how her muscles shift when she swallows. 

When he was younger, he’d jerk off to them, thinking about them being _lesbians_ , imagining cartoon Betty with her legs spread and Veronica’s tongue on her clit. This live action shit has only made it easier. Netflix has been doing the lord’s work, and normally Steve is grateful, but.

Instead of watching them chit-chat about Archie and Jughead, he’s pressing his fingers behind his ear, dragging them down his neck. Thinking.

Billy Hargrove stuck his tongue in his mouth. Billy Hargrove jizzed on his dick.

And a week ago, if someone had told him he’d even talk to Billy this summer, he’d have said nuh-uh, no way.

Without looking, he knows about the fucking hickies Dustin was seeing, the ones his grandma saw. And part of him is fucking furious. See if he ever lets Billy fucking neck him again.

But that sort of implies that he was thinking about doing it again, and he doesn’t know about that either. In his bedroom, stone sober, there’s something heavier in his gut, thinking about Billy’s lips.

Billy wanted to take him home.

But Billy doesn’t _do_ this.

And in his boxers, with Betty rolling her eyes at Veronica, Steve’s not really sure he didn’t imagine half of last night anyway. Even with the evidence pressed into his skin, the hickies and the stubble burn, and the sense that when he does his laundry next, he’s going to find his sweater crusty with come that’s not his.

It was probably a one-off. He was just in the right place at the right time, in some sort of weird universal apex, where they were high, and horny, and fucking dumb.

Steve doesn’t buy into the hippie bullshit on his hand, but he scratches at the band anyway. Thinks about the dark blue and purple swirling in the weed leaf, the blue Lambo sitting in his windowsill. 

He doesn’t remember how the car got into his pocket, or when, but it fell out as he got into the shower, and.

His phone buzzes.

_r u up?_

_bored out of my fucking brain_

_wanna get baked?_

Billy is probably also in bed in his boxers, twisting his stupid nose ring as he stares at his screen. He’s probably got a hand in his short curls, looking at half-naked girls on Instagram.

Steve sits with his finger hovering over the reply button for maybe a second, lip held between his teeth, before he sends, _where_?

**Author's Note:**

> thecopperkid:  
> a fic born from  
> • our mutual proximity to mediocre amusement parks  
> • the fucking stellar aesthetic of Adventureland (one of the greatest films of 2009??)  
> • the Euphoria fair scene (leave me alone about the carousel orgasm Erika)  
> HI I hope you like this, pls come say hi to me on tumblr @the-copperkid <3
> 
> eternalgoldfish:  
> Surprise??  
> We've been working on this for what feels like forever now, and I'm so excited to finally be able to share it.  
> This was literally just a big vision a few months ago, articulated mostly through enthusiastic screams.  
> As always, big love and thanks to uncaringerinn for her helpful feedback and unwavering patience.  
> (She mostly holds my hand and wipes jam off my face, because I'm a toddler?)  
> And of course, big love to all of you for reading!  
> Feel free to hit me up on Tumblr @eternalgoldfish.
> 
> The title songs are "3 Nights" by Dominic Fike and "Fourth of July" by Fall Out Boy.


End file.
